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POEMS 



BY 



MARY SCRIMZEOUR WHITAKER. 



Blame not the poet's plaintive lay. 

Though sad and full of wo : 
His thoughts are ever far away, 

His tears must ever flow. 









/ CHARLESTON: 

JOHN B. NIXON, PRINTER, 48 BROAD-STREET. 

1850. 



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, in 
the Clerk's Office of the District Court of South Carolina. 



PKEFACE. 

The time when prefaces were as indispensable to booka 
as prologues to plays, has passed away. If a book possess 
merit, the public, now-a-days, is more apt to be propitiated 
by a perusal of its contents, than by any explanations, 
made in advance, by its author. It is perhaps, however, 
due to the reader, to state the reasons which have induced 
the author of this collection of poems to consent to their 
publication. Written originally for her own gratification, 
none of them would have appeared in print, save for the 
approbation of intelligent critics, to whose inspection they 
were occasionally submitted, and the frequent and urgent 
solicitation of friends, who, after the apperance of several 
of them in the newspapers and periodicals of the day, 
recommended the collection of all her scattered poems, and 
their publication in a volume. 

'• The Creole " was written after a brief residence in the 
West Indies, and is intended to be chiefly descriptive of 
scenery, without any intricacy of plot. For the irregular 
versification of this poem, the author deems no apology 
necessary. It was adopted with a view to obviate the 
tedium of a too uniform and monotonous rythm, and has 
high authority in the practice of our best modern poets, 



IV. PREFACE. 

particularly Scott and Byron. This, and "Carolan's Le- 
gend," "Solitude," "The Lonely Heart," "Early Recol- 
lections," various ballads, sonnets and short lyrical pieces, 
have never before appeared in printf. 

The author has endeavored to avoid the obscurity and 
affectation -which characterize the style of our modern tran- 
scendental bards, and her verses 'will receive but little favor 
at the hands of those who are enamoured of the pecu- 
liarities of that school of poets. She has aimed only to 
express her thoughts and feelings in a clear, simple and 
natural style, and if she fail to make herself understood and 
felt by others, it will not, she flatters herself, be owing to a 
blameable inattenion to the best standards of poetry in the 
English language, which she has made a study from her early 
years. It may be objected by some, that a majority of the 
pieces are tinged with a melancholy hue, and are more sad 
than joyous ; but for this peculiarity, if it be a fault, she has 
no apology to offer but her temperament and circumstances, 

Charleston, March 15, 1850. 



CONTENTS 





PAGE 


THE CREOLE . 


13 


woman's LOVE .... 


64 


THE ORPHAN 


. 59 


THE HOUR OF DEATH 


61 


PALENQUE .... 


. 63 


SPRING AND HOPE 


66 


DEATH THE UNIVERSAL LOT . 


. 68 


THE FLOWER, THE STAR, THE RILL 


70 


THE BRIDAL EVE 


72 


THE INDIAN ISLES 


74 


THE STRANGER'S GRAVE 


76 


A VOICE FROM CHINA 


79 


ZEOLA .... 


. 81 


AN INFANT'S TOMB 


84 


FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 


. 87 


ISLES OF THE WEST 


90 


LINES ON THE DEATH OF J. G. F. 


. 91 


NAPOLEON .... 


93 


MOURN NOT FOR HER 


96 


THE STAR OF LOVE 


99 



VI. CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THOUGH VENGEFUL STORMS . / . .101 

THE mother's LAMENT . . . 103 

AT SEA . . . . . .106 

THE LONELY HEART . . . .107 

THE IMPROVISATRICE . . . . . 115 

CHILD OF THE EARTH . . . . 118 

FATHER! THE WORLD 13 DARK AND COLD . . 120 

SPRING ...... 122 

WHY MOURN O'ER BLIGHTED PROSPECTS . .124 

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND . . . 126 

it droop'd and wither'd . . . .129 

the return . . . . . 131 

ON LANDING IN BRITAIN . . . .133 

INEZ . . . . . .135 

SOLITUDE ...... 137 

THE LAST HOME ... . . . 147 

HENRY VIII AND HERNE THE HUNTER, . 149 

'TIS NIGHT . . . . 154 

DREAMS . . . . . . 156 

THERE IS A LOV'D HOUR . . . .159 

CARRAVAGIO . . . . . .160 

o! WEEP FOR THE DOOM'd . . . 162 

FORGIVENESS . . . . . .164 

WHAT IS FAME? ..... 166 

THE DEPARTED . . . . .169 

ELAME NOT THE POET'S PLAINTIVE LAY . . 172 



CONTENTS. Vll. 

PAGE 

THE SPIRIT VISION . . . . .174 

TO LILLY . . . . . 176 

THE DYING CHILD*S REQUEST . . . .178 

TO THE DEPARTING YEAR . . . 180 

LOVE FOREVER NEW . . . .182 

EARTHLY HOPE . . . . . 184 

HYMN . . . . . .185 

SUNRISE . . . . . 187 

ALROY . . . .-. . 189 

BYRON ...... 191 

CAMPBELL . . . . . .193 

SCOTT . ..... 195 

l. e. l. a sonnet . . . . .193 

hemans — a sonnet . . . . 199 

carolan's legend . . . . . 200 

my early dead .... 208 

TO ELLA . . . . . . . 210 

FRIENDSHIP . . . . . 212 

TO THE PICTURE OF MRS. M. S. W., DECEASED, . 214 

REMORSE . . . . . 215 

THE LONELY BANQUET HALL . . . .216 

IDA A BALLAD, . . . . . 218 

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD .... 220 

THE DESERTED ..... 222 

A LEAKY BARK — SONNET, . . . .224 

BALLAD ...... 225 



Vlll. CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A SKELETON ..... 229 

WEST INDIES . . . . . 231 

THY BEAUTY PROSTRATE IN THE DUST . . 233 

THE POET'S DESTINY .... 235 

THE LOV'D — THE LOST, .... 237 

kock-eagle's SONG .... 238 

EVENING ...... 243 

1 SAW HER ONCE . . . . 245 

BREVITY OF LIFE . . . . .247 

O, REST YE IN PEACE . . . . 249 

THE poet's WRONG, .... 250 

THE BROKEN VOW . . . . 251 

IN MEMORY OF MISS M. W. — SONNET, . . 255 

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS .... 256 

SONNET . . . . . . 262 

MEN AND FLOWERS .... 263 

THE poet's GRAVE ..... 265 

TO A SLEEPING INFANT .... 268 

SONNET ...... 270 

I REMEMBER A CLIME . . . . 271 

WEST INDIAN AUTUMN .... 274 

SLANDER ...... 276 

O WEEP NOT FOR THE EARLY DEAD . . . 278 

THE SUN HAD SET AND EVENING'S QUEEN , 280 

THE GRAVE ...... 283 

FRIENDSHIP . , - 285 



CONTENTS. IX. 

PAGE 

GENTLEST ONE, I LOVE THEE STILL . . 286 

JOY AND ENVY ..... 288 

I WILL GO TO THE GRAVE . . - 291 

THE VILLAGE PASTOR. .... 293 

FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND . . . 295 

SUMMER — A SONNET ..... 297 

WINTER — A SONNET .... 298 

THE STOEM . ..... 299 

MY ROSES , 300 







THE CREOLE. 



CHAPTER I. 

High floats in air the radiant moon 

Quivers the glitt'ring billow, 
And ripples, softly, on the shore, 

Against its pebbly pillow. 
White, round yon jutting rock, it foams, 

Scatt'ring a drizzly spray, 
And louder echoes there are heard, 

While sleeps the glassy bay, — 
Whose clear unruffled surface rests — 

One broad, bright, silver sheet, 
Beneath whose crystal flood, secure, 

The dolphin finds retreat. 
The boundless mirror of the main, 

Soft stars look down to greet, 

B 



14 THE CREOLE. 

Deep shades, behind, the tall cliffs fling ; 

Breezes blow fresh and sweet, 
Moaning along the mighty flood, 
And whisp'ring through the leafy wood. 
The scene is fair as scene may be, 
On thy green bank, O Silver-Key ! 
And where thy lighthouse sheds its ray. 
O'er ocean seen, far, far away, 

The streamer nutters white, 
As boldly breasts the sea yon ship r 

It is a lovely night ! 
Low music rolls along the tide, — 

The sailor's song is heard, — 
And, from the beetling rock, resounds 

The scream of lone sea-bird. 
Aloft, the towering aloes rise, 
Casting their branches 'gainst the skies, 
And that frail flower, that dies at morn, 
Ne'er known the sunny day t'adorn, 
Gorgeous and trembling, spreads its leaves. 
And, glad, the crystal dew receives. 
Oh clime of the beautiful West ! 
What mild charms thy evenings invest ! 
When blazing hours give place to night, 
And Dian sweeps through clouds of white, 




TIIE CREOLE. 

Careering swift, her .saffron car 
Mounts the blue vault, and dims each star, 
Spreading a gentler noon abroad, 
She moves along her cerule road. 

But Nassau's hall is lit this eve, 
Gay guests and pleasure to receive, 
As if such scenes could not bestow 
More joy than halls of pleasure know. 
Ah ! will the rich mellifluous strain 
To slumber soothe the heart of pain ? 
All vainly must that troubled heart, 
In those light revels, bear its part. 
Surrounding bliss ne'er charms the soul, 
Where sleepless grief maintains control, 
And, if it rouse one feeling there, 
"Tis the drear feeling of despair. 

Lo ! Nassau's dark-eyed daughters come, 

With airy forms and light, 
With graceful steps and raven locks, 

Where merry strains invite. 

And jalousies are up, 

In yon illumin'd place, 

As smiles the joyous face, 

Of each who there will sup, 






16 THE CREOLE. 






Save thine, young, pensive Creole maid ! 
Though in Potosi's gems arrayed. 
For listless is thy languid eye, 
Deep in thy bosom swells the sigh ; 
Thy silken feldellin* hath gold, 
Laces and flowers above each fold ; 
Each jetty tress of shining hair 
Is bound with snowy pearls so rare, 

All o'er thy thoughtful brow. 
Nor dost thou join the merry throng, 
Who move, in circling maze, along. 

Sad thoughts possess thee now, 
Perchance of those who silent sleep 
Beyond the murmurs of the deep, — 

Thy parents early lost ; 
Perchance of him, — thy guardian dread ;- 
But if of living or of dead, 
Mournful thy thoughts, fair Meta, seem, 
And all before thee as a dream ; — 
Nor does one ray of pleasure beam 

Upon thy bosom's frost. 

At last, around the downcast maid, 
Gather'd a group, who earnest pray'd, 

* Spanish West India lady's dress. 






THE CREOLE. 17 



Her soft, fair hand the harp might touch. 

She long refused to sing, 
But, when she did, her lay was such 

As might sad musings bring. 
The wav'ring notes arose and fell, 
With timid, yet delightful, swell ; 
Her jewelled fingers swept the chords, 
Wild was the air that breath'd these words 



SONG. 

In the stranger maiden's heart, 

Lives a deathless love for thee ; 
Though harsh tyrants bid us part, 

Though between us roars the sea. 

If my eye is full of light, 

If my cheek is deck'd with bloom, 
'Tis to hide an inward blight, 

'Tis to mask an inward gloom. 

Sunlight stream'd upon thy way, 

I, the cloud that dimm'd its beam, 

Thine is now a darksome day, 

Darksome as a troubled dream, 

b2 't 






18 THE CREOLE. 

All my love and all my wo, 

Stranger, wilt thou ne'er forget f 

Yes ! forget me, — -loved one, go ! 
I can live but to regret. 

Thou shalt flourish in thy pride, 
I must perish sad and lone, 

Sever'd from thy sheltering side, 
Ah, my heart is cold as stone f 



Downward her dewy eyes were cast, 
And paleness o'er her features past, 
As died that low and warbling strain ; 
Nor might she wake those tones again, 
That linger'd plaintive, on the ear, 
Melodious, flowing, soft and clear. 
But, now, her dark eye flashes light, 
As yon tall stranger meets her sight, 
Whose lordly port and inborn grace 
Proclaim his lofty soul and race. 

" O, Stanley, say ! what dost thou here, 
In time like this, all full of fear ? 
They bore me, weeping, o'er the sea, 
And said, thy face 1 ne'er might see. 



THE CREOLE. 19 

Some evil star, sure, rules our fate, — 
Beware, beware dissembled hate ; 
For angry Gulio will dare 
A deed to wrap me in despair." 

"Best, gentlest, ever noblest maid, 
In purest innocence array'd, 
Stanley is near, — be not afraid ! 
Now, safe from pirate and from storm, 
He joys to greet thy lovely form. 
Yet, yesternight, the whist'ling gale 
Bow'd our strong mast and rent our sail. 
The moon shone bright — the night was clear, 
But danger, love, and death were near. 
Around the base of Memory-Rock, 
The ocean heaved with dreadful shock, 
And, on the curling waves, white foam 
Rode, like pale spirits of the storm ; 
On unseen crags our vessel struck, 
And wav'ring backward, groan'd and shookc 
Even then, when hollow howi'd the wind, 
One thought lent courage to my mind, — 
'Twas all of thee ; I siezed the helm, 
Though ocean threaten'd us to whelm. 
Our pilot, borne far on the main, 
Could vessel no more guide again. 









20 THE CREOLE. 



It was an awful hour ! The deep 
Loud wail'd, and still, at every leap, 
Our ship, we deem'd, no more could rise ; 
The sailors joined shrill, fearful cries. 
Southward I bore. The weary bark, 
Struggling, scarce liv'd upon the wave. 
The moon went down, and all was dark, 
When ceas'd the dismal wind to rave. 
At last, a beacon-fire shone glad, 
To cheer the seamen's spirits sad ; 
And we, reviv'd, drew near the shore ; 
When, sudden, with a deaf 'ning roar, 
The pirate's heavy guns resound. 
Around that bark the rolling flood 
Was deep, and darkly stain'd with blood. 
I, only, 'scap'd without a wound. 
I will not pain thy gentle ear, 
Rehearsing cruel deeds of fear ; 
1 only live, beloved, to tell 
Of all that in that hour befel. 
Enough ! since thou art here, 'tis well ! 
Like morning's ray, when darkness dies, 
So dost thou beam before mine eyes. 
But where is he, my Meta, say, 
Who sternly rules thy destiny ? 



£ 



THE CKEOLE. 21 

To whose direction thou was left, 
When of thy parents, lov'd, bereft ? 
Woful the hour he meets me near, — 
More woful, should his son appear, — 
Who thee, perforce, would make his bride, 
And tear from thy own Stanley's side." 

" Alas ! at Nassau they abide, 

But with these guests not now are seen," 

The trembling maiden, sad, replied, 

" Else had our meeting joyless been. 

O, Stanley, list ! my vow is given 

Before the eye of holy heaven, 

Nor do I heed Don Pedro's will, 

Nor can I wed his cruel son. 

My heart, as ever, thine is still, 

Despite what tyranny has done, 

Or yet, with angry frown, may do. 

The Creole maiden's heart is true. 

But, O, avoid those cruel men, 

For, horrid thought ! they'll seek thy blood. 

And mingle poison for thy food ! 

Then, who will bless my sight again, 

Should such vile malice lay thee low ? 

Oh, who could speak sad Meta's woe ! 



22 THE CREOLE. 

For know, the deadly thorn* hath power 
To wither youth in rosiest hour. 
But we must part — " 

" Oh, Meta, stay ! 
Where grows the palm-grove, dearest, say, 
When dawns the orient morn, wilt thou 
Meet me upon the green hill's brow, — 
Our fates unite at early day ? 
Wilt thou not trust me, maiden dear ? 
Deem'st thou thy Stanley's heart sincere ?" 

" That noble heart hath danger dared, 

And often insult brooked for me, 

It is by constancy endeared— 

Whom should I trust on earth but thee ?" 

" O, then, when glows the roseate sky, 
Ere yet red Sol prevails on high, 
To that calm, lonely grove repair, 
Priest and witness meet us there, 
We part not from that blissful hour, 
My ever beauteous, desert flow'r ! 

* West India poison.-thorn. 






THE CREOLE. 

Adieu ! until dark-vested night 
Yields her dull empire to the light. 
Adieu ! until for us farewell 
No more, as now, shall ring its knell." 



2$ 



CHAPTER II. 

'Tis dewy morn. The smiling sky 
Gleams deep blue, gold and purple, 
One star yet brightly burns on high, 
Clouds the horizon dapple ; 
And soft, from citron groves, the air 

Wafts rich and fresh perfume. 
Hist ! hurried steps are drawing near, 

The bridal train have come ! 
The youth's fair brow, elate with pride, 
Is arch'd by joy, and at his side 
Is she — his pensive foreign bride : 
But mournful smil'd her dreamy eye, 
As if not yet she deem'd him nigh — 
Was it a glimpse of destiny ? 



24 THE CREOLE. 

Early she learn'd to look for ill ; 
Sorrow dwelt with her childhood still,—- 
Though happy now, she fear'd too blest, 
Nor dar'd on earthly bliss to rest ! 
Contrasted beauty deck'd the pair ; — 
The maid was dark,— the youth was fair ; 
Brown were his glitt'ring locks ; his eye 
Was hazle-brown, his forehead high ; 
Britain's rich rose bloom'd on his cheek, 
And kindness did his looks bespeak ; 
Oh, none could gaze on that fair youth, 
Yet doubt his nobleness and truth ; 
They were clear-mirrored in his face, 
Where the soul's beauty all might trace. 
The lady, like a tropic eight, 
So grandly, beautifully bright, 
SunJighted morn not lovelier shows, 
When, on the earth, its glory flows, 
Alas ! how soon life's prospects fade, 
The brightest soonest are decayed ! 
Man's cup of bliss is full, when, lo ! 
Dash'd from his lips, its contents flow, 
Scatter'd and sunken in the dust. 
What is the hope that mortals trust 1 
A gilded palace, crumbling soon ; 
A painted flower, that dies at noon ; 



THE CREOLE. 21 

A dream of bliss, — a passing ray- 
That cheers the pilgrim's onward way ; 
A meteor, gleaming on the sight ; 
A star, soon hid in clouds of night ; 
A proud ship, sinking in the sea ; 
A bird of beauty, soon to flee ; 
A rainbow, o'er the arching heav'n ; 
A green tree, by keen lightning riven ; 
A world of joy, that may not last ; 
A fragrant zephyr, floating past ; 
A sunny wave, — a joyous smile, 
Short-liv'd, and living to beguile. 



CHAPTER III. 

In the verandah, sat that morn 
Don Pedro, aged, stern and cold, 
And, frowning near, with look forlorn, 
His son, so swarthy and so bold, 
The father spoke : " Our sweet-voic'd bird. 
At Stanley's call, forsakes her cage : 
c 



26 THE CREOLE. 

It boots not now, — but, by my word ? 
The lady much provokes my rage. 
Her costly treasures, gems and lands 
Escape not thus my feeble hands. 
Her father wilPd that I should guard 
The portion of my lovely ward ; 
Nor so had wilPd he, save that none, 
Neighbour or relative, were near, 
When death proclaimed his journey done 
And, in that hour of darkest fear, 
His accents these : — " Stranger, I die ! 
My little tender lamb protect, 
And gently tend, when low I lie. 
For her my gold and gems collect, — 
The maiden lacks not worldly store, 
Nor lacks she grace nor goodness more. 
Oh ! by that bliss you hope to share, 
Give heed unto my dying prayer ! 
Deal kindly with the little one, 
When I, her sire, sleep darkly lone, — 
No ! not alone, — lay me beside 
Her mother, who too early died!" 
His soul serene in peace did part, — 
These words mov'd pity at my heart. 
The maid I cherish'd fondly still, 
And well performed her father's will. 






THE CREOLE. 27 

While soaring dreams and purpose high, 
And spirit proud flash'd from her eye,— 
Submiss to me, resign'd and tame, 
That spirit was, till Stanley came." 

Answer'd rude Gulio : His name 

Lights in my wild heart wilder flame, 

'Twas not the maiden's gold I sought, 

No ! 'twas her melting eye that wrought 

Deep passion in my soul, — herself 

I meant to win, and not her pelf, — ■ 

That was thy aim,— keep it, — 'tis thine, 

But, dearer far, — revenge is mine I 

His days are number'd, nor shall he, 

Bear his young bride, — mine should she be, — 

To England o'er the rolling sea. 

How flies the angry blood of Spain, 

Bounding along each burning vein, 

At that fell thought ! Ha ! Is it so? 

Is Meta lost to Gulio? 

Go ! guard thy darling wealth. Retire ! 

Here I remain to sate mine ire. 

Nay, — look not thus ! Would'st thou reprove ? 

'Twas ne'er thy crime, at least, — to love ! 

That pale, cold eye, ne'er lighted yet, 

Save when bright gold thy vision met." 



28 THE CREOLE. 

" Fond boy ! And hath a maid such pow'iv 
Thy temper brisk and gay to sour? 
What is she, now, without her dow'r? 
Naught, will he deem, — her fair-hair'd youth, 
Who soon shall know th' unwelcome truth. 
Meanwhile, adieu! In yonder bay 
My skiff awaits, — I must away. 
Be warned ! Thy purpose bad forsake ; 
Best vengeance this, — the gold to take. 
His death may bring thee wo and strife ; 
Again, I say, — touch not his life. 
1 care not for young Stanley's fate, 
Nor for the sorrows of his mate, 
Should ill betide her much-lov'd lord ; 
But thou wilt feel his kinsman's hate ;— 
Thou wilt ! — rely upon my word." 

With hobbling gait, the old man went, 
His form with age and care was bent, 
And on a sturdy staff he leant ; — 
Contracted was his brow. His eye 
Was fierce and keen and gray and sly ; 
His black moustache was partly gray, 
Deep wrinkles cross'd his face each way; 
The aged, in a torrid clime, 
Thy ugly hand worst marks, old Time I 



THE. CREOLE. 29 

Wither'd they seem, — deform'd and dun, 

Like shrivell'd leaves beneath the sun, — 

Bloodless appear, ghastly and lank, 

Like some lone, branchless, storm-sear'd trunk.. 

One passion rul'd the vet'ran's soul, — 

Base love of gain there held control : 

Where that loath'd passion keeps its sway, 

Nor goodness, peace, nor mercy stay. 

If aught he loved of human kind, 

'Twas the rough youth he left behind, 

Who rose and walk'd with rapid stride, 

While grief and rage his thoughts divide, 

And, in his struggling bosom pent, 

In words like these, at last, found vent : 

" She was the playmate of my youth ; 

I lov'd her long and well in sooth ; 

I wove the wild-flow'r in her hair, — 

No charms with her's could then compare, 

And she would smile, and call me brother, 

Away, fond thought! — she lov'd another. 

I climb'd the slipp'ry rock to bring 

Her plumes from the flamingo's wing; 

For varied gems I search'd the mine, 

About her graceful neck to twine ; — ■ 

€2 






* * 






30 THE CREOLE. 

The emerald green, and topaz gay, 
With its clear, streaming, sunny ray : 
But she was lovelier far than they ! 
There are things in the heart ne'er told, — 
To paint them language is but cold ; 
Awake, O memory! and say, 
How full of joy and hope the day, 
When love's and fear's alternate strife 
Clouded at once, and gladden'd life ! 
How chang'd am I ! 'Tis over,— past ! 
The seal is set, — the die is cast ! 
Lie still, proud heart! calm face, ne'er show 
Aught of such things, when falls my blow. 
Like crested serpent, I'll beguile, — 
Strike at his life, and, striking, smile. 
He boasted oft, the British fair, 
In winning graces, matchless here ; — 
Why, then, to blight my heart, did he, 

Meta! rob that heart of thee? 

1 cannot tear thee thence e'en now, 
Despite thy fatal marriage vow, — 
Dark daughter of a vanish'd race ! 
Proud nursling of the wilderness ! 
Yet, like the wild-vine, full of grace, 
Like forest-flower of loveliness! 



d 



THE CREOLE. 31 

The fault is all thine own, 

Thy peerless charms did win 

Two hearts to deepest love, 

And one to deadly sin. 

They led him to forsake 

His kindred o'er the sea, 

And, — but I cannot name 

What i" shall shortly be ! 
Fly peace ! I can rejoice no more, 
Till my red hand is dipp'd in gore, 
Till I behold the crimson earth 
Reek, as his heart's best blood flows forth, 
And, while its last false drops there drain, 
Think I have lov'd, and lov'd in vain." 

He walk'd adown the shady street, 

Nor knew what object there should greet, — 

Greet to appal, — his low'ring eye : 

Young Meta, in her bridal white, 

And Stanley met his troubled sight ! 

That dark brow clear'd, — he slow drew nigh. 

In crime the heart must long be school'd, 

Ere by such deep deceit 'tis ruled ; 

Yet" he, fell murder in his mind, 

Bespoke them, thus, with accents kind : 



32 THE CREOLE. 

'"Be yours long years of bliss, I pray, — 
Long be your life a cloudless day ! 
Stanley, I, sometime, sought your bride, 
But partial fate my suit denied ;" 
(His head he quickly turned aside) 
"I bade thee seek no more her hand, 
Such was Don Pedro's strict command, 
Who, sooth to say, is sorely vex'd, 
And, at her hasty choice, perplex'd. 
But see! his vessel's spreading sail 
Now woos the lightly flying gale. 
I well divine, his fleeting ire 
Will, as a transient spark, expire. 
Accept my proffer'd friendship, — due 
Your merit just, — believe it true. 
Why trembles Meta? Lady bright, 
Dost thou mistrust the faith I plight ]" 

Suspicion, in brave Stanley's breast, 
Was ever an unwonted guest, 

Nor now found entrance there. 
" Gulio, we thy friendship claim, 
I give thee e'en a brother's name, 

As does this lady dear." 
That lady's downcast eye did speak, 
As spoke the paleness of her cheek, 



THE CEEOLE. 38 

Her secret soul's foreboding dread ; 
While low she bent her gentle head, — 
Look'd tearful up, and sadly said : 
"If such the truth, this softer mood 
Comes like a backward flowing flood. 
Oh! what has calmed the dreadful rage» 
My tears and prayers could not assuage ? 
Thy proudest boast, — " I ne'er forgive 
Till the offender cease to live !" 
Don Pedro might, perchance, relent, 
I deem'd not thou could'st e'er repent; 
And if thy promise be sincere, 
; Tis cure indeed for all my fear. 
But O, recal that awful vow 
It chills me to remember now, — 
"The day thou dost the stranger wed, 
Shall see him number'd with the dead F : 
How oft those words come to my ear, 
Changing glad sounds to sounds of fear ; 
Ringing, deep, a funeral note, 
As from the raven's dismal throat. 
Call back, — call back that gloomy threat/ 

"Gentle the task and gladly met, — - 
Be yours, sweet lady, to forget. 



34 THE CREOLE. 

Those folly-prompted words, forgive. 
Live long, and happy may ye live!" 
So parted they,- — far other greeting 
Awaited their next fateful meeting. 



CHAPTER IV. 

How sultry ! Yonder fiery sun 
But half his daily journey run. 
Downward in yellow blazing streams, 
Pours the keen radiance of his beams ;— 
Rock, beach, and green extended plain, 
Reflected heat return again ; 
The rustling orange-leaf hangs still, 
The tamarind sighs not on the hill, 
Old ocean's deep-toned voice is low, 
Forgetful breezes cease to blow, 
Men court the shade, dull silence reigns, 
But softly broken by sweet strains, 
Where garlands deck the stately hall, 
Late glowing with the festival. 



THE CREOLE. 35 



Black-eyed Meta's harp is ringing, 
Her wild descant she is singing : 



SONG. 

Mother, — mother! far away 
On thy daughter's bridal day, 
She will think of thee and weep, 
And thy dear remembrance keep. 

Father ! slumb'ring in the grave, 
Where the whisp'ring palm-tiees wave, 
Tears bedew thy daughter's eye, 
Thinking thou in earth dost lie. 

Parents both I Your orphan child, 
Left with strangers in the wild, 
Spirits come ! Bright, spirits bend, 
Hear her tell, — she finds a friend ! 



On an ottoman, rich and rare, 

She sits with her long, braided, hair, 

And Stanley lists her music sad, 

With mingled feelings, strange and glad ; 



36 THE CREOLE. 

The song was o'er,— she thus began, 
While slowly wav'd her feathery fan : 
" Why did the stranger cast his eye 
On a poor orphan, lone as I ? 
On one unmeet to share his lot, 
One who, alas! deserves him not? 
In merit mean, of portion reft, — 
Don Pedro's av'rice nought hath left. 
How like thee, once, appear'd my sire, 
Ere pining grief 9 and sickness dire, 
My last and truest friend laid low ; 
My gentle mother died, ere well 
I could lisp forth her name, or tell 
My sorrow at the sudden blow ; 
Yet I remember, even now, 
How calmly death stole o'er her brow, — 
How cold and stiff her lily face, 
That, moveless, lay in tranquil grace. 
I took her wan and empty hand, 
And long a trembler there did stand ; 
Around her ebon hair the wreath 
Was set,* in token sure of death. 
I kissed her lip, — 'twas marble cold, — 
They laid her in the darksome mould. 

* Alluding to the custom of crowning the dead with flowers. 



THE CREOLE. 37 

My sire grew mournful from that day, 

And oft I heard him sadly say, 

"Thrice happy souls, made one by love, 

Who no dread early parting prove ! 

O ! other lot was ours, my lost ! 

On our sweet spring fell timeless frost, — - 

Its bloom and verdure fled away, 

Nor did one beauteous remnant stay, 

Save what now lives in memory's eye, — 

The rest, a vision, flitted by. 

For this lorn one I live alone, 

All else I lov'd, with thee is flown." — 

And so his heavy days dragg'd on , 

But when his last long sleep drew near, 

! then, alas, I was not there ; — 
Mine was, they said, his latest prayer, 
Nor did it, Stanley, much avail." 

She ceased. Her cheek grew deadly pale, — 
Adown that pale cheek rell'd a tear, — 
That moving sight ill could he bear. 

** Early, my Meta, hast thou known 

Earth holds some hearts more cold than stone ; 

1 know all thou hast borne for me, 
I know thy matchless constancy ; 

30 



38 THE CEEOLE. 

A life devoted to thy will, 
Would leave me, love, thy debtor still. 
Name not lost wealth, — let it bestow 
What joy it may upon our foe ; 
My noblest fortune, dearest ! lies 
In the soft witchery of thine eyes, 
That truly speak a guileless heart, — 
Portray the soul, — thy lovelier part. 
Nor costliest jewels from the mine, 
Nor all the sparkling gems that shine 
On yon wide continent, for me, 
Can, in the balance, weigh with thee. 
Would I not rather waste them all, 
Than see one diamond tear-drop fall, 
Glist'ning, from my lov'd Meta's eye ! 
Mourn not thy parents,- — heav'n did please 
To rob thee, loveliest ! of these, 
And, though but ill, let me supply 
Their tenderness, until I die." 



THE CREOLE. 39 



CHAPTER V. 



Once more is Dian shining o'er 
The silvery heights and pebbly shore ; — 
Vessels float, anchored, in the bay, — 
In air their pennons idly play, 
As sallow quadroons, passing by, 
Glance round with keenly brilliant eye ; 
The sable sons of Afric, here, 
In Albion's martial garb appear, 
Sombre in visage and in mien, 
Uepeat their motto, " Live the Queen !" 
Hoarsely, around the sounding shore, 
Deep ocean's sleepless surges roar ; 
Once more the sea-breeze fans the grove, 
When Stanley walks forth with his love,- 
That beauteous lady, darkly bright, 
On whom he gazes with delight, — 
His Peri of the Western wild, 
So graceful, winning, soft and mild. 
They pass along the echoing strand, 
Where wash the waves a bed of sand, — 
Then, onward, where the nodding grove, 
Umbrageous, rears tall boughs above. 
On her high perch the gorgeous bird, 
As on they go, their voices heard, 



40 THE CREOLE. 

And, frighted from the verdant sprayv 
To deeper forests wings her way. 

" O, pleasant shades ! O, happy eve I 
Meta ! could yon mild moon receive 
Two stranger guests on her sweet shore,. 
To dwell there aye, and part no more, 
Methinks, delighted, I could go, 
And to her wond'ring people show 
The loveliest daughter of the earth, 
The first in beauty and in worth," 
Slowly emerging from the wood, 
An uncouth form before them stood, — 
One moment paus'd, and then was gone*, 
Athwart a sword a moonbeam shone ; 
Again ;was seen, — vanish'd in haste, 
And yet, once more and nearer past I 
Grim Gulio beside them stands, 
A weapon blazing in his hands, — 
With restless eye, wild roaming round* 
And, like the tiger, ere it bound, 

He glares upon his prey. 

" Lady ! did I not say, 
The day thou dost the stranger wed, 
Shall see him number'd with the dead I 



THE CREOLE. 41 

Go ] journey to the gentle moon, 
x\nd thank this hand that sends thee soon." 
She heard no more, — a swoon, like death, 
Stole her faint senses, — hush'd her breath, — 
And better had she slept forever, 
Than wake to view her fallen lover : 
For, rousing from her wo-fraught trance, 
Pale horror struck her trembling glance ; 
Stanley, in warm blood, welt'ring lies, 
Thick shadows swim before his eyes, 
The crimson gore distains his cheek, 
His ashen lips refuse to speak : 
With her long, silken hair she strove 
To staunch the wound, and rent the grove 
With loud, repeated calls for aid ! 
But none those piercing calls obeyed ; 
" Alas ! why is all help delay'd 1 
No hope, in this dark hour of fee - . 
I woo ye, pity ! mercy ! hear ! 
My heart too truly told me this, 
The sequel of my short-liv'd bliss. 
Stanley, thou wilt not die, — oh say ! 
Without thy love, I cannot stay 
On this false earth. Light of my life ! 
I caus'd those awful words, — this strife, — 
d2 



42 THE CREOLE. 

Those dreadful words he spoke 5 — 
This cruel, murd'rous stroke ! 
My senses wander, — dismal day ! 
Mother ! — But thou art far away ; — 
My kindred slumber in the grave, 
Save this last stay I Oh, mercy, save I" 
Faint were her lover's accents now, 
Cold dews rest on his marble brow, 
His breath came fast, and scarce allow'd 
The language from his lips that flow'd : 
" O'er yonder hill, — see ! torches wave, — 
Friends come in time, perchance, to save* 
Base treachery in man may dwell, 
But courage ! love, — all may be well !", 
His falt'ring voice such hope belied, 
And stream'd fresh torrents from his side, 
Strange dimness gather'd o'er his eye, 
And shook his frame with agony. 



THE CREOLE. 43 

CHAPTER VI. 

The morning sun mov'd on his way, 
Pearly dews glitter'd on each spray, 
And glisten'd o'er the verdant lawn ; 
Bland was the breath of early dawn ; 
Bright waves were dancing far away ; 
But Stanley, on his death-bed, lay ! 
Strangers were round his couch of pain, 
Who strove to baffle death in vain ! 
There stood his kinsman, full of ire 
Against the murd'rer, dark and dire ; 
While one lov'd mourner, at his side, 
Look'd woful on 3 — his foreign bride. 

With mournful voice he spoke ; its melting sound 
Unearthly music, soft, diiTus'd around ; 
It fell upon her ear in cadence low, — 
Those fading tones were full of dying wo ! 
(Alas, the voice so soon to pass from time 
Hath a strange eloquence, deep and sublime !) 
" Belov'd ! we part, — oh more than cherish'd life! 
Behold these pangs, — frail Nature's farewell strife. 
My eyes grow dim, — my pulses cease to beat, 
And reason totters on her mortal seat ! 






44 THE CIIE0LE. 

E'en thy lov'd form a troubled shadow seems, 
Like those which haunt dark, undefined dreams. 
O ! who will shield from storms thy darling head 
When I am resting with the unconscious dead? 
Alone I leave thee in a world of strife, 
Helpless to meet the thronging ills of life ! 
Muse not, too sadly, on our early wo, 
Lift high thy holy thoughts from all below, 
And, if thou canst, that bloody grove forget, — 
But thy dear Stanley's love remember yet. 
O, I had thought to shelter thee, my flower! 
Heav'n will'd it not, — this is my dying hour ! 
I die in youth, — 'tis not for this I grieve, 
But thee, O love ! — 'tis bitterness to leave. 
So long, long sought, — at last, my hard-won bride, 
And cruelly for me hast thou been tried. 
No human monster, in man's likeness made, 
Can frown on thee, when I in dust am laid ; 
For heav'n will guard thy unprotected way, 
Defenceless one ! when I am blent with clay ; — ■ 
'Tis my last prayer, — 'twill rise for thee on high, 
Preferr'd in death's cold, struggling, agony. 
Press thy pale lips upon my death-cold brow, 
My chill hand clasp ! — adieu ! — I leave thee now." 



THE CREOLE. 45 

The voice she lov'd so well, was hush'd in death ■ 
All beautiful he lay, — still, — without breath ; 
A heav'nly smile sat on his bloodless face, 
And wav'd his ringlets brown with wonted grace. 
As passed the fitful breeze that fearful place. 
Serenely calm he lay, like one in sleep, 
Save that his bosom beat not, — did she weep ? 
No ! not one tear she shed, but, like the sky, 
When gloomy tempests gather dark on high, 
And rain forbears to fall, though thunders roar, 
And furious winds howl round in dreadful pow'r, 
Ev'n so she stood ! That desolating hour 
Has rob'd her life in wo, — consign'd to care 
Her blighted youth, with all its prospects fair. 
At last she faintly whisper'd, " Thy young bride, — 
Oh that with thee, belov'd ! she could have died.' 5 



CHAPTER VII. 



They bore his manly form to rest, 
The sun was sinking in the West! 
They laid him in his early tomb, 
And left him there alone with gloom 



46 THE CREOLE. 

They tore her from his sheltering side, 
So statue-like, — his foreign bride. 

Oh, how he lov'd that stranger sad, 
Who lives to say, " My all lies dead !" 
No human pow'r could ever part 
From him the chosen of his heart, 
And death alone might thus divide 
His true soul from his stranger bride. 

The orange bloom'd on, and kalmia's rich flow'r 
Hung smiling, as erst, within its green bow'r, 
Aloes wav'd stately, and spice-trees were fair, 
Guava and citron still breath'd on the air, 
Cocoas their broad leaves, above her, yet spread, — 
But fled were their charms^ — their fragance was fled; 
Her stateliest of all had bow'd his proud head ; 
The ocean wave moan'd, as it kiss'd the shore, 
And glitt'ring stars spread the blue concave o'er. 
Morn once more dawn'd, in wonted beauty drest, 
And evening lit that, richly glowing West ; — 
But wave, nor star, nor morn, nor eve had pow'r 
To charm her more, from that thrice awful hour 
That gave grief only for her future dow'r. 
Pale grew her cheek, and dim the flashing eye, 
And tremulous the step that hurried heedless by ; 



THE CREOLE. 47 



Ever her harp the maiden wildly swept, 
Sad were the words she sang, and, singing, wept 
While, far, old ocean moan'd in concert low, 
As if the blue waves felt fair Meta's woe : 



SONG. 

Lover ! on a bloody bier, 
Motionless and marble fair, 
Thy transcendant beauty bow'd, 
Cold reposing in thy shroud, 
Sorely is my heart dismay'd, — 
Answer thy own Creole maid ! 

Answer ! from yon bright-hued sky, 
Where the swift-winged angels fly, 
I behold thee ! thou art there ! 
With thy floating, golden hair, — 
Tell me, why am I afraid ? 
Answer thy own Creole maid ! 

Where am I ? The air is sweet, 
Budding flowers are at my feet, — 
Softly rolls the silver wave, — 
I am sitting by thy grave, 



48 THE CREOLE. 

Weeping sadly, sore dismay'd,-— 
Pity thy own Creole maid ! 

Seek not any distant star, 

I will miss thee when afar ; 

Join the white-brow'd seraph throng, 

I am with them, — hark my song ! 

Now my soul is undismay'd, — 

Welcome thy own Creole maid ! 

Ah ! my brain is dark and wild, 
Sorrow's broken-hearted child ! 
Happy spirits come and go, 
But they leave me still below, — -• 
Still my flight is unessay'd, 
Lonely weeps thy Creole maid ! 



And she must wither now, as dies the tree 
Whose sap has fail'd, — for where, oh where is he, 
Her early lov'd, her beautiful, her pride, — 
Sole sun that lit her path ! The death he died'— 
That bloody death, — his deep, fond, tender love 
Live in her heart, nor ever thence remove ; 
And all may see her pallid, shudd'ring, form 
Is beat by waves of sorrow's surging storm. 



THE CREOLE. 49 

With some, hope lives and dies, then blooms again, 
Reserving joy to heal the wounds of pain, — 
But she beheld its light depart in gloom, 
All wakeless evermore in Stanley's tomb. 



CHAPTER Vin. 



THE PRISONER. 



Within a prison, pent, he stood, 
Dread Gulio, — that man of blood ! 
As heavy clank'd his iron chain, 
He knew all hope of freedom vain, — 
Nor seem'd he to desire the boon, — 
But rather death, which waited soon 
To close his guilty, wild, career. 
Yet, who can look on death, nor fear 
The spirit's strange, mysterious flight, — 
The body left consign'd to night, — 
Cold, stark, and friendless, in damp earth,- 
Sever'd from beauty, light and mirth, 

E 



50 THE CREOLE. 

Companionless, decaying, dead, 

Soul, feeling, thought, existence fled: — - 

Scarce can the Christian view such doom, 

Though stay'd by hope, without deep gloom ;- 

Then how, oh how, shall such as he 

Launch into vast eternity! 

He lean'd his brow upon his hand, 

And gaz'd out on the wave-wash'd sand, 

Thinking how soon his form would lie 

Hid in earth's cold obscurity. 

His head swam round, — a hue of blood 

Seem'd purpling land and ocean's flood, 

The fiery heav'n, all red on high, 

Like lightning, smote his quailing eye; — 

He fancied loud shrieks in the wood, 

Like Meta's, on that murd'rous night : — *■ 

Another sound., — -another sight, 

And real this, — appals with fright; 

He hears the gallows' hammer tell 

He has not long on earth to dwell : 

That deep revenge was dearly bought— 

Such is his besom's secret thought! 

A fatal bride young Stanley chose, 

Who brought him death and many woes, 

Whose smile led on to gloomy fate,— r 

Whose love was but a gilded bait. 



THE CREOLE. 51 

That lured him from his country's shore, 

A vvand'rer, — to return no more. 

But she will weep for him, while I 

Must, all unmourned, nay, hated, die 

A loathed death ! — What startling stare 

Shall each, big, straining, eye-ball bear! 

No fun'ral rite my bier will grace, — 

My grave, unmark'd by sorrow's trace, 

Shall eft be pointed out to show, 

What crimes from tyrant passion flow. 

Detested thus, this mortal frame 

Laid low, while murder with my name 

Is ever blent, and, — dreadful doom ! 

My soul must live in hopeless gloom, 

Where gnaws the worm that never dies, 

And demons mingle dreary cries ! 

Remorseful pangs his spirit shook, — 

With firm-clench'd hand the wall he struck, — 

Then walk'd with heavy step and slow, 

And feelings blood-stain'd culprits know, — 

Beyond the power of words to paint, 

When man's strong heart grows chill and faint. 

Nature, at last, claimed brief repose, — 

Sleep brought a shadowy train of woes; — 

He saw his rival crown'd with flow'rs, 

Straying, in peace, 'mid blooming bow'rs ; 



52 THE CREOLE. 

Blue was the summer air, and mild 
The fragrant breeze, — sweet Summer's child- 
All rob'd in white, dead Stanley seem'd, 
And radiance, from his features, beam'd ; — 
Meta, companion of his way, — 
Yet pale as when, on earth, he lay. 
Soft harpings swell'd where walk'd the pair, 
And she was, than herself, more fair. 
But he ! the dreamer, garments wore, 
With dust defiPd and stiff with gore. 
They vanish'd, and he swung in air, — 
Upward he look'd,— a cord was there, — 
With sounding crash the gallows broke,—- 
He panted, started, groan'd, awoke 1 



Hush'd is her harp, her wail is o'er, 
The Creole maiden weeps no more ; 
She slumbers on the sea-girt shore, 
By him she lov'd so well. 

Yet oft, at eve, in fancy's ear, 
Mysterious music wanders there 5 
Soft floating on the azure air, 
Entrancing with its spell. 



THE CREOLE. 53 

And there the golden fruited tree, 
Whose snow-flow'rs feed the forest bee, 
Spreads its umbrageous canopy 
Beneath a blazing sky. 

And there the deep-hued tropic rose, 
In wild luxuriant beauty grows, 
As if to hallow the repose 
Of those who lowly lie. 

There oft the Indian moon doth shed 
Rays of mild splendor o'er the dead, 
And pale stars glimmer over head, 
In heaven of deepest blue. 

But heedless all of Nature's pride, 
They rest whom death could not divide, 
Young Stanley and his Creole bride, 
The fond, the fair, the true ! 



e2 



WOMAN'S LOVK 



" She hath liv'd, she hath lov'd, her task is done." — Hemanb, 

Each legend, old romance, and poet's song 

Tells, ever truly, one sad tale of love ; — 

Alas ! for her, when woman's trusting heart 

One treasured image keeps,— when all her dreams, 

Full of most living beauty, are of him, — 

The one too much beloved, — the radiant star 

That o'er the tempest of her life looks down, 

As smiles an angel, bending from the sky ! 

Too much of trust hath woman's love ! Too much 

Heart-worship yields she at an earthly shrine ; 

And she hath her reward ! — a life-long strife ; 

Tears of. consuming wo in secret shed; — 

A crush'd and weary spirit. 'Tis not well ! 

Her deep soul's yearnings are but wasted here ; 

They should seek brighter worlds, Althea lov'd 

With all her sex's fond fidelity, — 

With all the high enrapturing power, unknown 

To common natures, — as but genius loves. 



woman's love. 55 

For in her eye's blue, clear, and lustrous depths 
Were read her fatal dower, — affections strong, 
Poetic visions, cultured intellect : 
And wo ! for her who, so endow'd, gives all 
At one vast venture, — love, ambition, hope, 
E'en life itself, merged in a dearer life. 
Hapless Althea lov'd Leander thus ! 
The odorous breath of dew-besprinkled morn 
Reviv'd her not as did his lightest word. 
She never saw the sunbeam that outshone 
The glance of his dark lightning eye, nor e'er 
Had joy been her's, when absent from his side. 
Her very voice had caught his earnest tone, 
(Unconsciously we imitate the lov'd,) 
And the rich locks, that crown'd his stately head, 
Were adamantine chains about her heart. 
His gifts were noble: intellectual power 
Sat on his kingly brow; majestic thought 
Stamped his high visage with its glorious spell; 
And she was dear to him: yet dearer far 
Ambition's stirring voice to. man's proud soul, 
Than the soft links of meek depending love. 
He gazed on empty fame, 'till its cold light 
Sent coldness to his heart: she was forgot: 
And soon the cruel change Althea knew 
By that unerring instinct love bestows. 



56 woman's love. 

How could he, careless, cast aside a pearl 

Of such rare worth? Is it not always thus? 

For passing breath, which makes the world's applause, 

How many hearts have wither'd silently! 

There came to her mild eyes a wandering light, 

Strange and unnatural, and the feverish flush, 

That, fitful, dwelt upon her marble cheek, 

Told of a bitter strife, whose end is death. 

And she was dying, though sweet Spring's bland gale 

Blew, fraught with health and freshness to young 

flow'rs, 
That opened 'neath the sumbeams,- — emblems meet 
Of one so beautiful, so early doom'd ! 
Her mood was changed, — the light and ringing laugh, 
Ere while so joyous, sounded hoarse and low, — 
Rather a sigh of sorrow, than aught else. 
One task remained, to guard, with jealous care, 
Her soul's still secret; lingering pride forbade, 
That, when she slept her long last wakeless sleep, 
The stranger, pausing at her grave, should say, 
"Althea broke her heart and died for love." 
And so she smiled: subdued to more than woman's 

gentleness, 
That soft and mournful smile told all her tale, — 
The while she fancied it her best disguise, 
And seemed too drooping and too frail for life. 



woman's love. 57 

O, woman ! in thy weakness thou art strong ! 

And sternly do life's ills demand such strength. 

At last the mighty King of terrors came ! 

That lovely maiden calmly met his call : 

Her peace was made with heaven, and none should 

weep, 
Though, in her lowly tomb, were darkly laid 
Beauty and grace and winning excellence. 
The time of singing birds, the summer's pride, 
Advanc'd in glory, but she slept in death. 
O, they are blest, beyond all lingerers here, 
Who journey early to the land of souls ! 
I saw Leander then, — his meed was won ; 
Applauded and caressed, his haughty brow, 
Ploughed by deep lines of care and thought, wore still 
A lordly beauty and attractive grace. 
But I beheld a shadow, from the grave, 
In the bold flashing of his ardent eyes. 
In a wide hall, — where art's proud trophies shone, 
And sculptur'd forms of breathing marble stood, 
Pictures, which mirrored life, and vases rich 
Of classic mould, with flowers whose dulcet breath 
Perfumed the ambient air, while music's voice 
Filled its high arch with thrilling harmonies, — 
And gorgeous hangings, and all luxury can boast, — 
Leander sat, the idol of the crowd ; 



58 woman's love. 

Yet not one parasite, whose hollow smile 

He long had toiled to win, nor even one 

Who loved him for his bravery and truth, 

And stainless honor, and commanding mind, — 

(For he was true and just to all save her 

Who loved him best, Glengarry's faded flower, 

Whose gentle heart neglect might no more wring,) 

Not one knew, that, beneath exterior mirth, 

Althea's memory slept ; and yet, that night, 

When stars were bright in heaven, and the wan moon 

Look'd out from cloudless skies on silent earth, 

She saw a mourner weeping bitterly 

In a far grove ;• — his haughty head was bow'd, 

And, in his anguish, he outwatch'd the stars : 

It was Leander at Althea's grave ! 



THE ORPHAN 



Night's solemn grandeur robed the sky, 
Sparkling the starry host were seen, 

And from her silver watch-tower high, 

The radiant moon look'd forth serene. 



Majestic ocean, glitt'ring, lay, 

With billows hush'd to deep repose, 
A boatman's rich voice, far away, 

Upon the stilly night air rose. 

Low breezes blew with fitful moan, 

While dewy leaves did gently wave, 

And sweetly flowed the night bird's tone, 
Singing around a silent grave. 

All greenly grew the long grass there, 

Wild tangling roses wreath'd the spot, 

Where sat an orphan, young and fair, 
Weeping her lone unfriended lot. 



60 THE ORPHAN. 

And she was beautiful and mild, 

Though friendless on this sad cold earth, 
And none did love that orphan child, 

And nought she knew of childish mirth. 

" Mother ! long years are past and gone, 
Since thou wast laid in silence here, 

mother ! I am poor and lone, 

None wipe thy darling's bitter tear. 

But my dear Father, o'er yon sky, 

Will call his little wand'rer home, 

And dry the tears that dim her eye, 
And bid her here no longer roam. 

1 look upon the deep, grand flood, 

The fields and stars, which bloom and shine, 
I know that He is great and good, 

My blessed mother's God and mine." 

Again the moon looked forth serene, 

And sighing leaves did gently wave ; 

Again the starry host were seen, 

They shone upon the orphan's grave ! 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 



All o'er the pallid brow, the daws of death, 
Are gath'ring fast. Short comas the lab'ring breath; 
Half clos'd the heavy eyelid droops. The eye, 
Bedimm'd, tells now no more of agony ; 
A mortal numbness creeps o'er every part, 
Cold, icy cold. Still'd is the throbbing heart: 
The mouth, the smiling mouth, — one touch of pain 
Its beauty mars : it ne'er shall smile again : 
Past is the struggle ; hush'd the quick drawn breath, 
And thou thy victim hast, O monster, Death ! 

Fled is the trembling spirit ; — who shall say 
Whither? — Methinks I see it take its way 
To heav'n's resplendent gates, and enter there 
'Mid kindred spirits, white rob'd, glitt'ring, fair. 
Ah ! so my fancy views thee, parted soul ! 
Wand'rer to other worlds ! Beyond control 
Of aught on earth, thou art. The Mighty saith, 
Man's mortal part is thine. Thon hast it, Death ! 



62 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

When passing from these last dark shores of life, 
Less'ning before thee ; — when the parting strife 
Of Nature warned thee thou wast hast'ning home, 
What were thy thoughts ? and whither did they roam ? 
How o'er thy spirit came the day of mirth ? 
The changing scenes, — the pomp and show of earth ? 
They dwindled all to nought : — and, then, fair truth 
Broke lustrous forlh in the dark hour of death ! 

And thou, deserted body ! left below, — 
How pale, and still, and cold, thou art ! With wo 
Thou now hast done. Past are thy ills. Thy tears 
Have ceased to flow. Fled are thy earthly years ; 
And thou art borne to thy last still abode, 
Where all must go ! Many, before thee, trod 
That lonely path. Sleep on secure, till sound 
Of Gabriel's trump shall rend the solid ground. 
Sleep on ! securely sleep ! Jehovah saith, 
In beauty fair, thou shalt arise from death. 



PALENQUE 



Thou nameless city of the dead, 
With gloomy ruin o'er thee spread ! 
Wild desolation's mournful wings 
Shadow the dwelling of thy kings; 
Thy heroes have no more a name, 
Unknown their being and their fame ! 
Thy warriors sleep entomb'd in earth, 
No records tell their deeds ov birth ; — 
These walls but darkly speak of thee, 
Lone city! once so proud and free. 

Behold yon princely palace high, 
Which, crumbling slow, doth yet defy 
Time's levelling hand, — though swept away 
The glories of its earlier day ; — 
Now, through the stately corridor, 
Which kings and courtiers trod before, 
Beasts of the forest fearless roam, 
Scorpions and serpents find a home. 



64 PALEINQUB. 

The heavy bat slow flutters by, 
Peeps from the wall the grey owl's eye. 
And, for bright lamps that lit the night, 
The wandering fire-fly sheds its light. 

Hark! the crannying wind's low moan I 1 
As it rushes by, the tott'ring stone 
Falls with a loud and dismal sound, 
And hollow echoes spread around: 
Behold grim figures pictur'd there, 
And, wond'ring, ask, who once they were. 
None can those characters explain, 
And learning cons them o'er in vain; 
But this they say, in tones of grief; — 
"All mortal' glory's date is brief, — 
Cities and empires pass away, 
And man's renown lives but a day!" 

Lo! flickering pale, the moonbeam falls. 

With sickly light, upon the walls, 

And on the crumbling altar, where 

No priests nor supplicants appear. — 

Where once, perchance, the startling cry 

Of victims in their agony, — 

A human voice of wailing wo ? — 

A stream of blood, whose sullen flow 






♦ 






PALENQUE. 65 

Went darkly round this altar stone, — 
Were heard or seen, — but hush'd the moan, 
If such there were, — and dried the flood 
Of curdled sacrificial blood: 
Nameless their deity; — unguess'd 
Laws and the arts they once possess'd ; 
All, all, have vanished into night, 
Save what here meets the curious sight. 



f2 



SPRING AND HOPE. 



Glad earth revives, the sky is calm, 

Serenely calm and sweet ; 
Winds flutter gently, fraught with balm, 

Flow'rs bloom beneath my feet. 

Thick springing grass is gemm'd with dew. 
Pale violets lift their eyes, — 

Their laughing eyes of summer blue, 
And gaze upon the skies. 

Young leaves adorn the naked bough s 
Quiv'ring in freshest green ; 

And mocking-birds are warbling now, 
Those waving leaves between. 

Yon red rose blushes like a bride, 

White lily-bells appear; 
Gay butterflies, in robes of pride, 

Float on the ambient air. 



SPRING AND HOPE. 67 

The beauties thou dost ever bring, 

No poet's lay may tell ; 
For thou art lovely, genial Spring, 

And Nature loves thee well. 

But there is yet a sweeter hour, 

For wo-struck hearts in store ; 
When Hope's fair Spring, with waking pow'r, 

Inspires the soul once more. 

Hope's mandate bids the spirit rise, 

Cloth'd in fresh strength anew ; 
While fear and danger it defies, 

And forward sends its view. 

Full soon the joyous Spring will end, 

Full soon its charms depart ; 
But Hope, an ever faithful friend, 

Shall not desert my heart. 



DEATH, THE UNIVERSAL LOT. 



Look out upon the thoughtless earth, 
And see the ravages of death, — 

The men of crimes, the men of worth, — 

How soon they yield their fleeting breath. 

Some, in red battle, glorious die, 

Where rings the clarion's warlike sound, 
Where banners wave, and swords flash high, 

And neighing chargers spurn the ground, 

Ah! sadly silent, 'midst the strife, 

The gory soldier breathless lies, 

For who then recks his single life, 

Or who can pause to close his eyes ! 

Some perish, where the bounding wave 
Rolls, thund'iing on the stormy deep ; 

All dark and cold their ocean grave, 

Nor tempest more shall wake their sleep. 



DEATH, THE UNIVERSAL LOT. 69 

The loud winds howl their fun'ral dirge, 
And o'er them foaming billows sigh; 

But, heedless of the rushing surge, 
Forever heedless, low they lie. 

And, gently, in the hour of Spring, 

When balmy gales refreshing blow, 
When buoyant hope is on the wing, 
Some to the house of silence go. 

Around them were the joys of home, — 
The voice of love fell on their ear ; 

They little deem'd dark death would come. 
To dim the cloudless sunshine there! 

And he, who wears the kingly crown, 
And sways the sceptre of his might, 

Bereft of all, must lay him down, 
In humble silence and in night. 



THE FLOWER, THE STAR, THE RILL. 



I look'd on Spring's first budding flower, 
Scarce seen amid a dewy show'r, 
Half hid in vernal leaves, yet fair, 
And shedding odors on the air ; 
And then I thought, 'twould pass away, 
'Twould droop and die at close of day. 

When evening's star mild beauty shed, 
And glitter'd o'er the mountain's head, 
I lov'd its gentle beam to view, — 
A drop of gold 'mid heaven's deep blue : 
A dark cloud rose, and hid its ray, 
Its beauty fail'd, — it died away. 

The plashing rill, whose blue course wound, 
Fresh'ning yon verdant mead around, 
Has ceas'd to flow, — the summer's sun 
Dried up its source, — its race is run : 
No more it sparkles in the ray, — 
'Tis with the lost, — the past-away. 






THE FLOWER, THE STAR. THE RILL. 71 

The rose must die, — 'tis beauty's doom; 
The evening star must sink in gloom ; 
The rill must fail before the sun, 
And in its bed forget to run. 
Like flower, like star, like rill, must we 
Soon pass away, — soon cease to be ! 



THE BRIDAL EVE 



Behold the youthful bride beside the altar stand, 
While gleams the bridal ring upon her small white hand; 
And, woven with her rich long braids of shining hair, 
The pale rose wreath entwines its buds and blossoms 
fair. 

Depending graceful from her lowly bended head, 
The silver veil, with thin and fairy folds outspread, 
Her form of faultless mould, white-vested, doth enshroud, 
As o'er the blue sky floats the fleecy summer cloud. 

But pensive grows her eye, erewhile of laughing light, 

And pale her cheek, for solemn thoughts are hers to- 
night ; 

A mother's voice, belov'd, her home shall no more 
cheer, — 

Her father giveth her unto another's care. 



THE BRIDAL EVE. 73 

She thinks on all her reckless hours of girlish glee, — 
For her those sunny hours she knows no more may be : 
She takes a sad farewell of all that youth endears, 
And for a woman's higher destiny prepares. 

Hers is an anxious happiness ; — ah ! who can say, 
What sorrows yet may rise around her future way? 
For life has gath'ring storms, — she trusts a love untried, 
And binds her in the links death only can divide. 

Well may such musings on her earnest face impress 
Traces, combin'd of hope and fear and tenderness; 
Well may her cheek wax pale, as I behold her now, 
And her voice falter, as she speaks that binding vow. 

Let not the bitter blasts of chill adversity 

Ere blow, thou cherish'd one and fondly-rear'd, on thee ! 

Light be thy ills, since ills each child of earth must 

know, 
While passing through these ever-changing scenes 

below ! 



THE INDIAN ISLES. 



With vestment dipp'd in various dies, 

And full o'erflowing urn, 
See autumn bland 'neath amber skies, 

With golden fruits return. 
But, O ye Western Isles! more fair 
Doth your rich autumn now appear : 
A deeper blush your thick fruits wear, 
While dulcet breath perfumes your air. 

Bleak winter comes with feathery snow, 

And piercing blasts blow cold, 
While a dun mantle all below, 
Enwraps with dingy fold. 
The forest's cheerful charms are fled, 
The lake is but an icy bed, 
Yet far the Indian Islands bloom, 
Stern winter casts on them no gloom. 






THE INDIAN ISLES. 75 

Now Spring returns with milder hours, 

And robes of freshest green, 
Her zephyrs fanning rosy bowers, 

While shines the sky serene. 
Melodious grow the silent woods, 
Down rush dissolv'd the ice-bound floods : 
The ever blooming Indian Isles, 
Are joyous still, and bright with smiles. 

When burning Summer withers all, 

And balmy breezes fail, 
When cooling rains forget to fall, 

And Sol's fierce rays prevail ; 
Blue gleams the clear and dazzling sky, 
While stagnant waters turgid lie : 
But richer glow the Indian skies, 
A.nd fiercer doth their sun arise. 



THE STRANGER'S GRAVE . 



Alone, amidst overarching vines, majestic trees, and a view 
of wild grandeur, was the stranger's grave, who rested in a 
foreign land. 



High tow'r the solemn trees above 
The youthful stranger's tomb, 

Where wild-vines freakish arches weave 
Enrich'd with crimson bloom. 

The summer winds low music make, 
As they gently warble on ; 

The circling streamlet seeks the lake, 
And glitters in the sun. 

For this, in stately halls of pride, 
Wert thou, O stranger, rear'd ! 

For this on thee hath fortune smil'd, 
And joy thy pathway cheer'd? 



77 



For this was hope high at thy heart, 
That thou should'st perish here ! 

And in this stranger land depart, 

With none to mourn thee near ! 

It would have crush'd thy soul to know, 
Such was high heav'n's decree, 

That thou should'st moulder, cold and low, 
Beneath the forest tree. 

In a far home thy kindred dwelt, 

Thy lov'd and unforgot ; 
What pangs thy noble spirit felt 

Beneath the exile's lot ! 

But all is over now,— -green earth 

Enfolds thee in her breast, 
And in the sunny, fragrant South, 

The wand'rer's ashes rest. 

Though tempests loud, with rushing might, 
Howl 'mid the forests drear, 

And winged shafts of quiv'ring light 
Dart through the murky air; 

g2 



78 the stranger's grave. 

Though prowling tigers, past thy tomb, 
At midnight, roam for prey, 

When all is hush'd in silent gloom, 
About their trackless way : 

Not storms, nor lightnings, nor the roar 
Of savage monsters deep, 

Can daunt thee now, nor rouse thee more, 
So stone-like is thy sleep. 

But thou shalt hear a voice divine, 
" Give up, O earth ! thy dead ; 

And, ocean, yield the thousands thine, — 
Time's latest hour is sped !" 

O ! then, we trust, at God's right hand, 
Thou'lt live with spirits bright, 

A dweller of the holy land, 

That knows no death nor night. 






A VOICE FROM CHINA 



From China's clime, weak woman's voice 

Is heard with wailing cry, 
" Ye, who in light and hope rejoice, 

Behold us, — lo, we die ! 

They tell us, you have homes of peace, 
With no stern master there ; 

And elegance and happy ease, 

They say, 'tis yours to share. 

And childhood's little bird-like tone, 

And earnest, loving eye, 
Are yours ; and not the mournful groan 

Of infants doomed to die. 

Sisters ! on us red murder's hand, 

With cruel grasp, is laid ; 
While ignorance pervades our land, 

And we its victims made. 



80 A VOICE FROM CHINA. 

Enslaved, oppressed, — the aid we crave 
God's Word alone can give : 

O, send us o'er the dark blue wave, 
The light that bids us live ! 

For tears are ours, and wo and pain, 
If spared an early tomb, — 

Our lives, alas ! are worse than vain, 
And all beyond is gloom. 

No joy in life, — in death no hope, — • 
Unblest, we pass away ; — 

Say, will ye heav'n's bright portals ope,. 
And give us gospel day? 

The awful King, who reigns on high, 
Who all your blessings gave, 

Will ask in thunder from the sky, 
Why ye refused to save. 



ZEOLA 



Zeola sat in her forest bower, 

All under the oaken tree, 
And over her bloomed the woodbine flower, 

And round her flew the bee. 

The rustling moss, above, hung there so gray, 
Thick -woven, slowly waving, 

And butterflies were pink and golden gay, 
Upon clear ether sailing. 

A babbling streamlet roll'd soft at her feet. 

Like a liquid silver flood, 
And a stone was Zeola's chosen seat, 

In her own, wild, blooming wood. 

A hunter drew near, who carried a bow, 
While a wampum belt he wore ; 

Tall plumes did deck his lofty, fearless brow, 
And shade his swart visage o'er. 



82 ZEOLA. 

His eagle eye, though black, was full of light, 

And his glance was full of fire, 
And his raven tresses were like midnight, 

And his face was dark with ire. 

The Mohawk chieftain was going to war, 

He came to bid her farewell, 
" And rest thee in peace, my wilderness star, 

May safety around thee dwell ! 

hfc I go where red blood streams shall wet the ground, 

And wind-winged arrows fly, 
Where the loud war-whoop shall echoing sound, 

Till pale foes start at the cry. 

"When two moons are passed, Cosato will come, 

Or else, in the spirit land, 
O'er the sunny hills, will thy warrior roam, 

Where hunt the shadowy band." 

When two moons were past, Cosato came not, 

Zeola wept in her bower, 
At morn, or at noon, he ne'er was forgot, 

Or at evening's whispering hour. 



■ 



ZEOLA. 83 

The third moon he came, — Zeola was dead, 

As dies the woodbine flower, 
She droop'd, and pin'd, and bow'd her gentle head, 

All in her forest bower. 



AN INFANT'S TOMB. 



Low evening winds are echoing round, — 
'Tis sweet, moon-silver'd night, — 

Wakes, in yon dell, a plaintive sound 
Of waters gushing bright. 

And hark ! the wood bird's melting song 

Floats on the scented air, 
Mournful, as though it told some wrong, 

Or wail'd some secret care. 

White drapery decks the azure sky, 

With myriad stars bedight, 
While from its concave, grandly high, 

Pale Luna greets the sight. 

The folded flowers have sunk to rest, 
The wild bee's hum is still, 

And, on earth's green and fragrant breast, 
Eve's gentle dews distil. 



85 



Be fertile, earth! yield flow'rets rare, — 
Bright flowers of rich perfume, 

And still a wild-rose chaplet wear 
Above this infant's tomb. 

High meaning sat upon his brow, 

So candid and so pure ; 
But ah ! 'tis cold as marble now, 

His heart's pulse beats no more, 

O ! never flower may blush more fair, 
Than that lost angel's cheek : — 

All graceful fell his waving hair, 
His eyes were soft and meek. 

Deep blue, and full of deathless love, 

Yet flashing with a ray, 
As though they caught, from heaven above, 

A beam of heaven's own day. 

That radiant glance, the coffin drear, 
Has covered from my eyes ; 

And dust defiles that auburn hair, 
As low in earth he lies. 



18 AN INFANT'S T03IB. 

That beauteous form sleeps in the tomb, 
A calm and peaceful rest, 

But glorious, in immortal bloom, 
His soul lives with the blest. 

A golden harp is in his hands, 

Fresh am'ranth binds his brow, 

And, 'mid white-gleaming seraph bands, 
His voice is warbling now. 

Weep not for those who early die! 

A nobler life is theirs; 
Wet not for them the mournful eye, 

Since they have done with tears. 



FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 



Where winds (ho clear blue western stream, 

Through solitary forests deep, 
Amidst whose tangled boughs the beam 

Of yonder sun doth joyous creep: 

There dwells the panther of the West, 

The wolf and fox are prowling there; 

On high the eagle builds her nest, 
And oft is seen the savage bear. 

The streaked snake upon thy bank, 

Lies glist'ning in the noon-tide ray, 

And pendant from the tall trees dank, 

The long gray moss waves mournfully* 

Great Nature reigns in majesty 

O'er thy umbrageous banks and steeps ; 
Here comes no sound of revelry, 

Nor here the voice of sorrow weeps. 



88 FLOWEES OF THE FOREST. 

No feudal tower frowns darkly by 

The swelling murmur of thy wave; 

But there is heard the jaguar's cry, 

And there is seen the Indian's grave. 

And thou hast many a lovely flower, 
Exhaling sweets, unseen and fair, 

Where woodbines wreathe a fairy bower, 
Where jasmine's golden buds appear. 

The modest lily, pure and white, 

Uplifts its lowly fragrant, head ; 

Dazz'ling above, magnolias bright, 

Their silken, snowy leaves outspread. 

" Why bloom ye, lovely flowers, so lone, 
Secluded from the eye of man? 

In the wide forest, all unknown, 

None may your rainbow beauties scan." 

"Deem not that we unheeded die, 

Nor think our charms are wasted here , 

The weary exile's drooping eye, 
'Tis ours in solitude to cheer. 



FLOWEHS OF THE FOItEST. 89 

"Wing'd seraphs from another sphere, 
Admiring stoop, and look with joy 

On their Creator's work so fair, 

Adoring Him, — their best employ.. 

"They bless that great mysterious power, 
Who spreads our rainbow-tinted hues, 

Who guides the planet, forms the flower, 
And on it sheds refreshing dews. 

"Then learn! He formeth naught in vain; 

Say not the wild flow'r fades unknown; 
We glad the lone heart, wrung with pain, — 

Glad angels wandering from his throned 



h2 



ISLES OP THE WEST. 



Enchanting the beauties of this tropic clime, 
Where the bergam-ot grows and the gold-colored lime ; 
Where the orange-flow'r wafts its soft breath of perfume, 
And rich kalmia's full blossoms wave gorgeous in bloom; 
Where tali palm-trees and plantains their broad leaves 

unfold, 
'Neath the bright southern sky of deep azure and gold. 

Yon glittering bird, with its varied wing, 

Now skims the clear sky, yet refuses to sing; 

White gleams the lone rock, while from far we descry 

Tall ships from all nations, whose flags flutter by; 

Here fresh breezes at even come over the sea, 

As loud moans dark ocean, majestic and free- 

'Tis the land of the Indian ! where bright planets burn, 
But the stranger, who views them, may never return, 
O! why art thou beautiful but to destroy? 
Death seizes man e'en while he sees thee with joy; 
Sweet Isles of the Ocean, destructive yet sweet, 
Ah! hapless the stranger who finds your retreat. 



LINES 



ON THE DEATH OF J. G. F., A YOUNG OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 



Far in the distant West, where deep blue skies 
O'erspread majestic lakes, — where forests rise, 
Pathless and vast and gloomy, — where the mound 
Of Indian relics, grass-o'ergrown, is found, — 
Where, in the wide-spread shade, the timid deer 
Roam hill and dell and plain, devoid of fear, — 
Where dark brown buffaloes, in herds, are seen 
To graze rich meads, — the bear of savage mean 
Growling appears, then vanishes in haste, — 
Where the swan floats on Michigan's broad waste, 
While cool waves lave the silent lonely shore, 
Thou wast, — young stranger ! But thou'rt there no more. 
From Southern climes thou cam'st; thy beaming eye 
The beauties scann'd of earth, air, ocean, sky. 
Manly thy form and fair. A hero's heart 
Dwelt with thee, soldier! But alas! war's art 
And science, genius, beauty, youth and love 
Avail'd thee not, — for thou wast called to prove 
Death'* pow'r o'er all things lovely. Thou art gone 
To that far country whence there's no return. 



92 LINES. 

A burning fever scorched thee, — and alone 
In thy last hour of need, thou sawest none 
Of all who loved thee in thy native land, 
To wipe the death-dew from thy brow,— thy hand, 
Trembling and icy-cold, to take, and tell, 
That though thou distant wast, we loved thee well i 
O ! fondly reared ! was it for this that thou, 
The pride of many hearts, wast sought ? And now 
Thou'rt slumbering in that stranger land : be still, 
My murmuring heart! Just is God's holy will! 
He took back what he gave ; no sparrow's fall 
Unnoted is ; — He guides and governs all. 
And, stranger! though remote from friends you fell, 
Yet God was there, — and He does all things well f 

Though o'er thy desert grave no friend may weep, 
Nor strew with flowers the turf where thou dost sleep,- 
Yet welling by, the softly moaning rill 
Shall wind its way ad'own the bowery hill; 
And in that place, so lone and wild, shall flow 
The mock-bird's song, the dove's sweet note of wo. 
Oft will we send our thoughts to that lone spot, 
And by us thou shalt never be forgot! 



NAPOLEON 



They bear him to rest, 
In silence and gloom, 

Where nought shall molest 
The sleep of the tomb. 

High princely his brow, 

But hushed is his breath ; 

No power could bow 

That spirit save death! 

And stern was its call 

To that warrior tried, 

And mournful his fill 
In glory and pride. 

All white, is his shroud, 

And closed his bright eye ; 
But, O! there's a cloud 

On that visage high. 



94 NAPOLEON. 

The proud soul has fled; 

In anguish it past, — 
Art thou with the dead, 

Stern monarch, at last? 

'Tis fearful to look 

On mortal decay; 

But who, — who can brook 
To gaze on thy clay? 

In life none more proud, — 

In death none more still, — 

O how art thou bow'd, 
Unbending in will! 

Come, view this dark form, 

This king and this clay, — 

This wreck of life's storm, — 
They bear him away. 

Rest, rest, mighty one, 

The great and the brave ; 

Rest, rest, thy task's done, 
And glorious thy grave ! 



NAPOLEON. 95 



Now low thou art laid, 
Thou meteor bright! 

Thy dwelling is made 

With worms and in night. 






MOURN NOT FOR HER, &c. 



' ' But she had died as roses die, 
That perish with a breeze." 



Mourn not for her, the early lost, 
Wet not with tears the sod; 

The gifted and the tempest, tost, 
Is now at rest with God! 

'Twas her's to see fond hope decay, 
And joy's sweet sun decline; 

As fainter sinks the orb of day, 
As droops the dying vine. 

'Twas her's to bide the cruel glance 
Of friendship's altered eye, 

And fold her hands, in bitter trance, 
At love's cold mockery. 



MOURN NOT FOR HER. 97 

'Twas her's to trust, aye, vainly trust, 

The hollow word and heart; 
Weep not beside her lowly dust, 

'Twas well she should depart. 

This weary world was all too bleak 

For one so kind and fair; 
Her gentle spirit, pure and meek, 

Was not to linger here. 

And when her earthly hopes were o'er, 

And life look'd darkly sad, 
She gazed upon the better shore, 

Where all is true and glad. 

And though she loved the Spring flower well, 

And song-birds witching lay, 
The waterfall and sloping dell, 

And woods in green array; 

Though dear to her the ocean wide, 

And evening's glitt'ring star, 
And rosy clouds, that graceful glide 

Through airy fields afar; 



MOURN NOT FOR HER. 

Yet earthly beauties fade away, 
Compared with those on high; 

And blooming, in the heavenly day, 
Are flowers that never die. 

Mourn not, tho' she hath fled from time. 

Dry up each falling tear, 
Her pinions, in the heavenly clime, 

Now cleave the golden air. 

Upon her head a crown of light, 
White-rob'd, she moves along ; 

'Mid seraph armies, shining bright, 
She chants the happy song. 

Rejoice for her, the early lost, 
Wet not with tears the sod, 

The gifted and the tempest tost, 
Is now at rest with God ! 



THE STAR OF LOVE. 



Back from my sight, false world ! thou hast no charm 

To lure, nor hast thou longer power to harm; 

Take all thy earth-born hopes and visions vain; 

Bear with thee pleasure and her laughing train; 

Call heartless friendship, — call all thou dost boast : 

I have not aught to lose, since all is lost! 

O thou! my own soft star of mortal love, 

Like yon that glitters by the moon above ; 

All darkly hast thou set in that far spot, 

In wakeless sleep with him, my unforgot; 

No more to rise, — nor ever more to gleam, 

That wast so beautiful, — yet but a dream. 

Lo ! transient hope, with folded drooping wing, 

Hath hushed her winning voice and ceased to sing; 

The echoes of her silver streaming tone 

Breathe on my heart to whisper, "she is gone." 

Now in her shining track, sad-visag'd wo, 

With mournful head declined, and footsteps slow. 

Leads on the boding tyrant, — -stern despair, 

With iron chains and brow of gloom severe. 



100 THE STAR OF LOVE. 

But I defy thee, monster! though thy tread 
Shakes loftier hearts than mine with quailing dread 
Captive thou art to Him, whose conquering might 
Shook death's pale empire with unknown affright. 
And thou! the richest boon to mortals given, 
Immortal love ! how pure art thou in heaven ! 
Though lost on earth, there thou art nobler far, 
There shalt thou smile on me again, my star ! 
Fond phantom, hope ! none, on that happy shore, 
Ask aid of thee, whom men so much adore. 
What need? Bliss flows in one untroubled stream, 
Such bliss as dawns not in thy wildest dream. 






THOUGH VENGEFUL STORMS IN DARKNESS 
LOWER. 



Be faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life. 

Though vengeful storms in darkness low'r, 

And o'er thy way their fury pour, 

Though howling winds moan wildly round, 

Though lightnings blaze, and thunders sound, 

Be not dismayed! Jehovah saith, 

Fear not, — be faithful unto death. 

When smiling prospects round thee rise, 

And earth's gay scenes salute thine eyes, 

When siren hope tunes her sweet voice, 

And bids thy trusting heart rejoice, 

Be not beguiled ; — thy Saviour saith, 

Press on, — be faithful unto death. 
i2 



102 THOUGH VENGEFUL STORMS, &C. 

'Midst joy and grief, 'midst smiles and tears, 
That cheer and cloud thy passing years, 
Look upward to thy Father's throne, 
Pilgrim of Zion, hie thee on ! 
And bless the gladd'ning voice that saith, 
Be firm, — be faithful unto death. 

And when thou meet'st thy last dread foe, 
And through death's silent vale dost go, 
That voice divine in accents bland, 
Shall woo thee to the better land, — 
"Come, victor, come ! — past is the strife, 
And this thy meed, — the crown of life. 

" In yon dark world of sin and wo, 
How many conflicts didst thou know, 
Amidst them all thy voice of prayer, 
Like incense, rose upon the air, 
And thou wast faithful in the strife,— 
Then wear this crown, — the crown of life. 

"Come blessed of my Father, come, 
Welcome to heaven, thy blissful home ; 
Where harps immortal, warbling, swell, 
Where odors breathe, where angels dwell, 
Where Jesus reigns, — whence flees all strife, 
And take thy crown, — the crown of life!" 



■ 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 



They covered her deep in the grave, 
Beauty was round her yet, 

Her floating hair, in many a wave, 
Fell like a wreath of jet. 

Her mild blue eye, the snowy lid 
And long dark lash conceal'd; 

Its glancing light forever hid, 

Which once each thought revealed. 

Stern death had spar'd the angel smile, 
Her lips were wont to wear, 

Whose sweetness ever would beguile 
A parent of her care. 

But now that parent could not brook 
Its pensive life-like grace, 

She could not, for an instant, look 
Upon her daughter's face: 



104 the mother's lament. 

Nor view the form so much her pride, 
Wrapp'd in its marble sleep, 

When mournfully she turned aside, 
In heavy wo to weep : 

And weeping said, "Sweet daughter! rest, 

Thy crown is early won ; 
I know thy home is with the blest, 

My own beloved one. 

I miss thy warbling voice, my child, 

I miss thy cheering eye ; 
I miss thy converse, wise and mild, 

Fair angel of the sky J 

Farewell, my lost, my beauteous love, 

Mute is thy melting lyre, 
Thou sweep'st a loftier harp above, 

Amidst the seraph choir. 

I plant bright flow'rs around thy tomb, 

That early feel decay, 
But thou art where the rose's bloom 

Shall never fade away. 



I 



the mother's lament. 105 

I walk my way in loneliness, 

Beneath heart-yearning care; 
Thine is a land of blessedness,-— 

No sorrow enters there. 

1 hoped thy lily hand might close 

My eyes in their last sleep, 
But first thou sinkest to repose, 

And I am left to weep. 

Adieu, young bride of death, adieu, 

Now sever'd is the tie, 
Which my fond spirit earthward drew 

From realms more pure and high. 






AT SEA. 



The pale, pale star of even, 

The peerless lamp of night, 

The dark-blue summer heav'n, 
With all its blessed light : 

The glorious purple ray, 

On heaving billows shed, 

When yonder king of day 

Doth seek his ocean bed: 

And silent night's dark gloom, 

And thunder's voice of might, 

Soft morning's rosy bloom, 

And lightning's forked light : 

All beautiful or grand, 

On earth to mortals given, 
Proclaim a Maker's hand, 

And point to God in heaven ! 



THE LONELY HEART. 



i. 

O! in life's morning hours of blissful hope, 
How beautiful the world! — how widely ope 
The prospects fresh, — and fair on every side, 
All rife with joy. The tuneful summer bird 
Hath tones of magic sweetness, when 'tis heard 
Singing, at breezy morn, adown the meadow wide; 
And the lov'd flow'rs with richer beauty bloom, 
Than when age on us falls, — or sorrow's glocrn 
Invests us, bending sadly o'er the wakeless tomb. 

ii. 

Did we not fondly cling to some fair form ? 

Is not that form, now mould'ring, blent with clay, 

Like a tall tree, uprooted by the storm, 

That swept along its wide destroying way? 

Can we not point to some lone silent grave, 

O'er which the bending grass doth mournful wave ? 

Can we not sit beside the turf and say, 

11 Could worlds avail, and had 1 worlds to give, 

The tomb should have them all, might its cold tenant live! 






-* 



108 THE LONELY HEART* 

III. 

Here lie beneath this calm secluded spot, 

Those beauteous features ne'er to be forgot ; 

The lips that never breath 'd one word unkind, 

The high, fair brow that never on me frown'd. 

What would that noble heart for me have dared ? 

Oh ! tenderness in every act appear'd : 

My guard, my stay, cold dost thou slumber here ; 

Sad is my heart, weary and full of fear: 

Flow on, ye bitter tears, which tell of my despair. 

IV, 

Come, poppy wreath, and bind my pensive brow : 
Remembrance, sleep for aye ! — to wake thee now 
Is but to probe a cureless wound, and throw 
Fresh anguish on the heart o'ercharged with wo. 
Sleep, my stern thoughts ! — look to the arching sky, 
So clear, serene and soft, spread out on high : 
Sure man was made for happiness, not wo, 
Since beauty decks the sky and all below: 
Go, ask the lonely heart. What answer ? 'Tis not so. 

v. 
Sweet to that heart is evening's closing hour, 
And sweet the grace of autumn's pallid flow'r ; . 
All mournful things have mournful power to charm : 






THE LOMELY HEART. 109 

Congenial is their state. Like the hurt deer, 

It shuns all noise, avoids each rude alarm, 

Yet not because the spirit bends to fear : 

It may be strengthen'd power is slumb'ring there, 

And should it rouse from sorrow's dreamy night, 

'T would show the soul but from affliction gathers might. 

VI. 

And, oh ! what holy melting feeling lies 

Hid in that heart's recess from vulgar eyes, 

Where sacred grief hath set its silent seal, 

But inward bleeds the wound that ne'er shall heal. 

Away ! ye scenes of gaiety and strife, 

Welcome lone hours and still secluded life ; 

Urge on thy lagging car, slow rolling time ! 

The lonely heart hath lost its hopeful prime ; 

Urge on thy lagging car, it asks, slow rolling time! 

vir. 
Ambition ! hush thy spirit-stirring voice, 
Me human praise can now no more rejoice. 
Where is the one best loved, the dearest tie, 
So strong, that held me from eternity ? 
Reft! — reft! The eye that would have lit, had fame, 
With her triumphant voice, pronounced my name, — 

K 



110 THE LONELY HEART. 

Is closed for aye. I should yet be more lone 

(Unless that one too heard) to list thy tone, 

And glory's accents would but sound like sorrow's moan. 

VIII. 

Come! kind companions of the pensive hour, 
Who breathe the grandeur of poetic power,— 
Come, mournful White! with thy mellifluous lyre, 
And Milton come! with all thy heavenly fire; 
Cheer the sad drooping spirit with your lays, 
And lull the watchful serpent dire that preys, 
Unceasing, on the springs of hopeless life. 
Withdraw, withdraw the ruthless fangs of grief, 
Albeit the time that it can slumber is but brief. 

IX. 

And thou! O dark lord of ihe mighty song, 

Pour forth thy numbers, sweet, sublime and strong: 

Tell of imperial Rome, and classic Greece, — 

Paint Venice in her day of wealth and power, — 

Mourn o'er her when that wealth and pow'r did cease ; 

O bear me to Egeria's peerless cave, 

Or to the snow-clad Alp, or crystal lake, 

Or where the mountain tempests wildly rave, 

Or where the mighty lauwine's thund'ring echoes wake. 






THE LONELY HEART. Ill 

X. 

Grief settles on the ever thoughtful brow, 

The spell is o'er ! The heart is lonely now, — 

It hath vain meltings toward the silent tomb; 

The earth's bright sunshine is to it but gloom; 

No thirsty traveller, o'er a desert waste, 

E'er, with such ardor, long'd the rill to taste, — 

No toil-worn pilgrim e'er desired his shrine 

To reach, — as doth that lone heart ever pine 

For what cannot return, — for what, O death! is thine. 

XI. 

Though smooth and flowery waves the emerald brake, 

Coil'd 'neath its lilies, lurks the poisonous snake. 

Though calmly gliding on, the waveless stream 

Unruffled at its glassy surface seem ; 

Yet rough and craggy rocks, unseen below, 

Chafe rudely its mild waters, as they flow; 

So dark and deeply hid within the soul, 

Grief empress reigns upon her secret throne, 

And though the face may smile, the heart is cold as stone* 

xir. 

Behold yon varied bow, that when the storm 
Is o'er, displays its slender arching form : 



I 



112 THE LONELY HEART. 

'Gainst the blue sky its orange tint is seen, 
With mellow purple wove, and tender green, — 
Symbol of mercy ! Heaven to human fear 
Sends the bright bow, — a type of heavenly care. 
Is there not One on high who pities wo 
In all its shapes? Witness, thou beauteous bow! 
And He can wipe the lone heart's tears as fast they 
flow. 

VIII. 

And death, who waits for all, will he not come, 

One day, to call the mournful spirit home 1 

At his approach, the gay cast a sad eye 

On earth's false dreams, — the happy fear to die, — 

The lonely heart in death beholds a friend, 

Who bids its long, long days of sadness end, 

And sends it to the grave, where all it loved 

Has gone before : nor can grief longer rend, 

When it shall deeply slumber with its dear lost friend. 

xiv. 

Night wears a starry robe, while Dian's beam 
Glances along the limpid gurgling stream, — 
Not to the hall where music's lightsome lay 
Is breathed to merry ears, 1 take my way. 
The solemn grove, and softly whispering tree* 






THE LONELY HIS ART. 1.J3 

The nightingale's wild untaught melody, 

More please my soul, — are dearer far to me. 

Sing on, — sing on, — thou sweet-voiced, envied bird! 

Would that no ruder sound the ear of night disturbedJ 

xv. 

Come with your light, blest dreams, and spread around 

The couch, where sorrow lies in slumber bound; — 

Give back the unfof gotten past, and shed 

The joys of other days upon my head. 

I see the form I deem'd wrapt up in clay, 

All fair and fresh in beauty's bright array: 

It smiles, — O 'tis the smile so lost, — so lov'd! — 

We part not thus. Enchanting vision, — stay! 

Alas! — it fades and dies, long ere the opening day. 

XVI. 

Light on the plains, and o'er the verdant hills! — 

No light, — no light, — the waking bosom fills ; — 

All fled with that thrice lovely mystery, — 

The midnight dream. All else is misery. 

Succeeding gloom, like clouds o'er yonder sun, 

Closes around,— -once more [ am alone. 

But memory has caught reviving light 

From the bright glimpse that dawn'd in silent night; 

Though beautiful, yet it hath left a drearier blight, 
k3 



114 THE LONELY HEART. 

XVII. 

Not so,— not so, from man's last sleep, shall we 

Rise to the light of vast eternity, 

All glorious from our lowly bed of dust: — 

(Such is our ever animated trust!) 

Wh) then a weary pilgrimage lament, 

From blighted youth to age in anguish bent? 

May we but meet our lost with angels pure, 

O ! what are those short ills we now endure ? 

With this blest hope, how doth the lonely spirit soar! 



THE IMPROVISATRICE. 



" Too well they know 
"Whose life is all within, — too soon and well 
When there the blight hath settled." — Hemans. 



Fair being, on whose high and queen-] ike brow 

Sits ever mournful calmness, and a light 

That tells of lofty thoughts deep hid within, 

Why art thou sad? O, surely, not for thee 

Hath stern misfortune filled her bitter cup, 

Poisoned with cruel grief, and bid thee drink ! 

Thou was't not made for tears ; too slight, too pale. 

Too gentle, and too full of earnest love, 

Art thou for heart-corroding wo, mild one : 

The spirit-light within thy azure eye 

Says thou wast full of joy, and hopeful once ; 

That beauty bloom'd around thy flow'ry path ; 

And thine the soul to feel each latent charm, 

The gifted see in Nature's curious book. 

Then bright imagination early came, 

And smil'd, and with her magic wand reveal'd 

Another world of high and glorious things, — 

Dream'd of, unreal. From those cherish'd dreams 



116 THE IMPROVISATRICE. 

Didst thou awake, too late, alas! to find 

Dark disappointment and a mournful sense 

Of shivering loneliness on empty earth! 

When thou did'st weep o'er thy heart's dearest hope, 

Blasted at once forever, was it thus, 

Child of JE >lian song, thy strains were taught, 

That are so thrilling, wildly-proud, and sad? 

'Twas even thus; — thy varied minstrel lore 

Of feeling coldly crush'd, an J hope destroy'd, — 

The golden fruit, — was nursed in burning tears! 

And yet a glorious meed is thine, — 'the power 

To clothe majestic musings in rich robes 

Of spirit-stirring language, and to wake, 

With thy deep lyre's pathetic tenderness, 

The slumb'ring feelings of the worldly heart 

We may not envy thee thy touching lays ;-« • 

A broken spirit gave them magic voice! 

Amidst resounding fame, how desolate 

Art thou, O weary child of melting sang! 

In what fine mould thy noble mind is cast! 

The sky, the sunbeam, and the silken flower, — - 

The glancing rivulet, and f >rest brown, — 

Have spells to bind and charm thy poet-soul, — » 

Strong spells, but yet most mournful ; for despair 

Breaches in thy harpings, sadly eloquent. 

Thy flight will not be long, proud, soaring bird! 



THE IMrROVISATRICE. 11' 

Soon wilt thou, wav'ring, fold thy drooping wing, 

And, from thy sorely wounded breast, a song, — 

A sweet and dying song, — shall burst, and so, 

Melodious, thou wilt sink to wakeless rest. 

Even now thy silver voice is faint, — its tones 

Of deepening melancholy warble low, — 

Darkly prophetic of thy coming doom, 

And whisper softly thus : When early Spring 

Her violet-broider'd mantle gaily throws 

O'er green reviving earth, her fragrant breath 

No more shall fan the minstrel's pallid cheek ; 

Her charms no more thy heavenly lay inspire. 

Nature's rich beauties round thy lonely grave 

Shall bloom as erst, but mute the tender lyre 

That sang those beauties once, and ever cold 

The heart so passionate, that deeply felt 

Their might of untold loveliness. Though short 

Thy being, yet how bright ! Immortal fame 

Unfurls her banner o'er the hallow'd spot, 

Where sleep thy lofty thoughts ; and none shall know 

Thy peace was barter'd for a vain renown, 

And happiness, the all too fearful price 

That bought thy fatal gift, — -the gift of song. 



CHILD OF THE EARTH, LIFT UP THINE EYES. 



ANGEL VOICE. 

Child of the earth! lift up thine eyes, 
Behold bright worlds on high, 

Cast off thy chains, awake, arise! 
Or low in ruin lie. 

REPLY. 

Fair is the opening prospect here, 
Joy smiles about my way, 

I know no grief, — no shadowy fear 
O'erwhelms me with dismay. 

The world is beautiful for me, 
Bloom rests on all its fruit, 

Its flowers are very fair to see, 
Nor are its songsters mute. 

Awhile may I its blessings taste, 
Awhile in youth rejoice, 

Nor gloomily the season waste,— 
Be still, thou warning voice ! 



CHILD OF THE EARTH, &C. 119 

ANGEL VOICE. 

Child of the earth ! to-morrow's light 

May dawn, but not for thee : 
Sudden doth fall death's chilling blight, 

Green drops the stately tree ! 






FATHER, THE WORLD IS DARK AND COLD. 




Father ! the world is dark and cold, 

My spirit pines for rest, 
Beneath the damp and dreary mould, 

No worldly cares molest. 

No wo for disappointment dread, 

Disturbs that peaceful home, 
The fever dream forever fled, 

Soft slumber hath the tomb. 

Father ! thine erring child hath given 

Vain worship unto dust, 
The heart which should have soar'd to heaven, 

Reposed in earth its trust. 

For (his hath sorrow's raven wing 

Hung darkling o'er my life, 
For this no day hath failed to bring 

Its mournful hours of strife. 



FATHER, THE WOULD IS DARK AND COLD. 121 

Alone into the world we come, 

Alone we must depart, 
And lonely is the unshar'd gloom, 

Ott pressing on the heart. 

But, Father! thine all-seeing eye 

Scans each emotion deep; 
Though hid from human sympathy, 
Not vainly do I weep. 

And if the fading hopes of time 

Die like its pleasant flowers, 
May heavenly hope, pure and sublime, 

Cheer my departing hours t 









SPRING. 



There is beauty, O! Spring, in thy bowers, 
And the breath of thy breezes is mild; 

There is fragrance and grace 'mid thy flowers, 
As all gaily they bloom in the wild. 

There is joy with thy beautiful bird, 

And lull blithely it sings in the grove; 

The glad voice of its music is heard, 
To enchant us wherever we rove. 

But. ye sweet birds, your song is in vain; 

Its rich melody charms me no more; 
And it ne'er shall delight me again, — 

My spring-time of hope is now o'er. 

Ye bright flowers, ye soft gales that blow, 
Ye're joyless to gloom and to care; 

Since ye cannot deliver from wo, 

Nor chase the dark tyrant despair. 



SPRING. 133 

Can ye bring back the joys that are fled, 

Fair and bright from their slumbering urn? 

Can ye call back the changed and the dead? 
No, alas ! they shall never return. 

Why rejoice in your verdure, O earth? 

Why, fair mountains and valleys, be glad? 
Why, sweet warblers, give vent to your mirth? 

Since ye ease not the heart that is sad. 

Yet smile on, there are those ye can cheer, 
Who ne'er knew disappointment or ill; 

For the hopeful, the happy and fair, — 

They shall joyfully welcome you still. 






WHY MOURN O'ER BLIGHTED PROSPECTS NOW; 



Why mourn o'er blighted prospects now, 

The lost, O ! why deplore, 
Heav'n's amaranth binds their gleaming brow 

With peace forever more ! 

And if our hopes are all o'erthrown, 
Earth's bliss is born to die ;— •- 

Then why delusive prospects mourn? 
Joy lives for aye on high! 

O! there, no mournful changes come* 
Unknown chill sorrow's night, 

There flowers celestial ever bloom, 
That feel no mortal blight ! 

Here, storms and tempests toss and rend 

The weary struggling bark, 
And toils and trials, without end, 

Are felt, and horrors dark. 



WHY MOURN, &C. 135 

But there is rest, — rest for the soul, 

On earth so crushed and weak, 
Dismayed to hear the thunder roll, 

And see the lightning streak. 

There ever hush'd those thunders loud, 

Red lightnings no more dart, 
No more is feared the tempest cloud, — 

Rest hath the broken heart. 

Then onward roll, ye stormy hours, 

Your gloom will soon be vain, 
The balmy land of deathless flowers, 

'Tis ours, ere long, to gain ! 



l2 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIENB 



" Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave" 



O friend beloved, to dust consigned! 
The feeling heart, the lucid mind, 
The kindly sympathizing eye, 
The voice that sooth'd pale misery, 
Are gone with thee : — O! gifted friend, 
Bright was thy life, and blest its end. 

Death's awful terrors lost their gloom, 
Nor didst thou view dismayed the tomb, 
When fell disease thy stricken frame 
Bow'd down and rack'd and overcame $ 
But, trusting in Jehovah's might, 
Faith lent the dismal vale its light. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 127 

Thy warning eloquence no more 
Shall melt us with resistless pow'r ; 
Yet ours are selfish tears for thee, 
Spirit belov'd ! from bonds set free, 
Who, in thy last extremity, 
Didst bless thy Saviour's name and die. 

We see thee, sainted spirit! rise 
To realms of bliss beyond the skies, 
And, bowing midst the glitt'ring throng, 
Enraptur'd, join the eternal song, 
Where angel choirs their harps of gold 
Strike, and redeeming love unfold. 

Joy for the ransom'd ! — on that day 

When time and earth shall pass away, 

Thy mould'ring form will fair revive, 

And in immortal beauty live, — 

A glorious body, sanctified 

Through Him, who once in anguish died. 

O! since, ere long, we too must rest, — 
The cold sod on each living breast, 
Like thee shut out from light and air, 
Alone, forgot, no lov'd one rx?ar. — 
As thine, may our glud spirits soar 
To regions bright for evermore : 



128 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND, 

Where no more sun the day shall light, 
Nor moon illume the starry night, 
For God himself all glorious reigns, 
And angel armies people plains, 
Where bloom the flowers of paradise, 
And heaven's eternal spires arise. 






IT DROOPED AND WITHERED. 



It droop'd and wither'd ; on its stalk it fell 
In utter loneliness, for want of shade, 
And earth-refreshing dew, and cooling rain, 
And health-inspiring air. E'en so it pass'd, 
And left a dying fragrance spread around: 
Then the dew descended, and the shade 
Was vainly wide extended, and the breeze, 
Reviving, blew. For thee, my flovv'r ! too late, — 
Oh ! all too late for thee they came, and thou 
Wilt never need them ! Rudely, on thy head, 
Misfortune's hand was laid; in thy young bloom, 
She sternly brought thee low ; but thou wilt live 
In realms celestial, my sweet flow'r! where all 
Earth's ills shall be forgot. O, waveless calm 
01 sweet, eternal rest! Thou shalt not dread 
Fierce noontide's heat nor rushing storms; no more 
I'll think of thee as one entomb'd in earth, but high 
Above the starry spheres, enrob'd in light, 
Behold my glorious flow'r 'mid angel groups, 
Where soft, congenial breezes deathless blow, 



180 IT DROOPED AND WITHERED. 

And redolent of bliss the heav'nly clime. 
So shall I view thee in my visions oft, 
And then shall transport fill my troubled heart, 
For thee, my flower ! 



THE RETURN. 



With burning memories I return, 
My heart is reft and sear'd and stern, 
No joy on earth can I discern, 
But all is drear and wild. 

I come, in sorrow's sable stole, 
Her name is written on my soul, 
I own her bitterest control, 
I am misfortune's child. 

A weary wreck, with shiver'd sail, 
And broken mast before the gale, 
That o'er the ocean sent its wail, 
I anchor here again. 

I've been at strife with gloomy fate, 
Death is the victor, all elate, 
Who, greedy monster! still doth wait, 
To clasp his iron chain, 



132 THE RETUHN. 

E'en on the fairest things of earth, 
On youth and joy and love and worth, 
Peace, sweet contentment, deathless truth: 
Could naught the tyrant spare 1 

Earth is his realm! here let him reign, 
But there are worlds, unknown to pain, 
And he shall never mar again 

The transport reigning there! 






ON LANDING TN BRITAIN 



O, Britain! is this thy proud shore, 
Renown'd for valour, arts and lore, 
Where Newton thought, and Chatham spoke. 
Where Milton's matchless lyre awoke, 
Where Wellington is now! 

Thy Tame doth spread through ev'ry land, 
The seas obey thy wide command, 
Thou sit'st a queen, in peerless state, 
And kingdoms, at thy bidding, wait, 
While triumphs grace thy brow. 

And thou, Columbia ! o'er the sea, 
Glories are gath'ring thick on thee ; — 
Move onward in thy high career, 
Dispensing blessings far and near, 
Bright daughter of the West 2 






134 ON LANDING IN BRITAIN. 

Britain, o'er Eastern climes doth sway, 
Columbia, Western realms obey; 
One boasts her past and present fame, 
And one doth future honors claim, — 
Both beautiful and blest. 




INEZ 



I saw thy blue eye, dim and moist, 
As o'er it came a tear. 

And then I knew that sorrow dwelt, 
Silent and bitter, there. 

Yet cloudless is thy sunny brow, 
A smile is on thy face, 

And those who look upon thee now, 
Can no sad feeling trace. 

For thy true heart, O lovely fair, 
Will break, ere it betray 

Its inward grief and still despair, 
To those that near thee stay ! 

And thou dost now as sweetly sing, 
As those who joyous are, 

And mingle in the merry ring, 
Its brightest shining star. 






136 INEZ. 

Red blows the rose : its glowing leaves 
Tell not of swift decay ; 

Yet there the hidden canker dwells* 
Unseen by light of day. 

E'en so that silent wo of thine 
Prays on thee, hid from light, 

And thou, high heart ! dost not repine* 
As o'er thee gathers night ! 

And it is gathering fast,— that night 
That knows no earthly dawn ; 

Thou'rt fading from our yearning sight, 
Yet bright as early morn. 

Alas ! for woman's silent woes* 
In her deep soul, unknown ; 

Which bring life to an early close, 
Sweet Inez, like thy own I 



SOLITUDE. 



i. 

Thy charms, O pensive Solitude ! I sing, 
Dear to the bosom no remorse doth wring; 
With thee dwells meditation and delight, 
While no rude scene distracts the weary sight ; 
Hush'd is all noise in thy serene abode, 
And strife, that vexes oft the world abroad : 
Thy votary alone can contemplate 
Past, present, and all yet that may await, 
Perchance, his coming years in this unstable state, 

ii. 

Lo ! smiling Hope, mankind's alluring friend, 
On thee her siren face doth sweetly bend ; 
With visionary beauty all sublime, 
Holds glory's torch and blesses coming time. 
And Memory recals her slumb'ring train, 
Whose vanish'd beauties wake to life again: 
With tender, mellow lustre, lo! they come, — ■ 
The joys of other days. Then, Memory, 
Restorer of the lost! man, — lonely, — blesses thee, 
m2 



138 SOLITUDE. 

III. 

But lie, who broods o'er guilty life alone, 

In silence hears the raven's fun'ral tone, 

Sits 'neath the blighting shade of dark despair, 

And his companion sad is boding fear. 

What though repentant tears flow long and fast? 

The past is with him there, — the mournful past! 

Might Lethe's fabled stream before him roll, 

One long, deep draught would quickly calm his soul: 

Alas ! no fabled waters can his grief control. 

IV. 

There are, who love thee from their early years: 

Nought the vindictive, nervous Arab fears, 

Though hungry lions roar in fearful wrath, 

And grim hyenas yell about his path, — 

Though locust swarms come, dark'niiig all the air, 

And prowling wolves, and jackals dire appeaiv 

Monarch of all, — a king in solitude, — 

Few are his wants, uncultur'd, savage, rude, 

And with deep love for these, his native scenes, imbued: 

v. 
The desert joys alone he deigns to taste, 
As swift his nimble courser scours the waste. 



SOLITUDE. 



13f> 



Howling his descant to the passing breeze; 

The glass)' lake, unreal, far he sees, 

While, o'er the dreary sand, the ostrich stalks, 

The docile camel, distant, stately walks, 

Half- wither 'd, prickly shrubs the way-side strew. 

The far off well now meets his joyous view, 

But there no fresh'ning streamlet purls, so clear and blue 

VI. 

The quiverd chief, who roams the Western wild, 
Nature's proud, unsophisticated child, 
Where Mississippi's broad, dark waters swell, 
And fearless tenants of the forest dwell, 
Who hears from far the cataract's awful voice, 
And doth, amidst his loneliness rejoice, 
Beholds the mighty deep before his eye, 
And o'er his head the grandly curtain'd sky, 
While fresh, through whisp'ring pines, the evening 
winds go by. 

VII. 

A native grace the warrior's step attends, 
As, on his solitary way, he wends, 
And not in vain, his savage bow he bends. 
His painted visage and tall waving plume, 
His fiery eye, and brow of haughty gloom, 



140 SOLITUDE. 

His lordly air, though in the desert born, 
His nostril spread, and curling lip of scorn, 
Proclaim him free! his foes' dried scalp he wears, 
And, high in air, the deadly tomahawk he rears. 

viii. 
Birth place of Genius ! when the moody boy, 
Dissever'd from the world and childish joy, 
Pores o'er romance and lpgendary song, 
Mem'ry and passion kindle impulse strong, 
And light the torch, that, after, lights the earth. 
Witness, O, Scott, sweet wizard of the North! 
And thou, who roam'dst the coast of Normandy, 
Neglected youth, — in sickly poverty, — 
Cuvier ! there Nature's wondrous book was read by thee, 

IX. 

And he, who woos the Muse, or courts deep lore f 
In thee holds converse high with men of yore, 
Renown'd and wise, philosopher and sage, 
Whose virtues live in the historic page, 
Plato and Socrates are with him there; 
Before him gods and men in arms appear, 
Entranc'd he lists great Homer's warlike lay, 
Shields flash, — helms glitter, — war, in stern array, 
Leads nations on, and havoc marks his dreadful way. 



SOLITUDE, 141 

X. 

Imagination roves through fields of air,-— 

Wild fancy, with her fairy charms, is there ; 

She spreads her radiant wing, and onward flies 

To earth's far bounds, or to the starry skies, 

Or to the ocean's hidden mysteries, 

Where Ceylon's spicy groves of beauty grow, 

Pearl fishers bring their treasures from below, 

The tiger, from the matted thicket springs, 

Swarm glitt'ring insect tribes, and deadly naja stings, 

XI. 

Where Iceland^ heated fountains overboil, 
And shrubs, for trees, rise from the barren soil, 
Hecla's volcanic summit lights the sky, — - 
On frozen islands polar bears float high, 
Dread whirlpools roar in craggy channels round, 
From beetling cliffs the sea-birds cries resound, 
Where snowy falcons, hornless kine abound, 
And slanting sunbeams weakly fall on plains, 
Forever bound in winter's cold and crystal chains.. 

XII. 

Blest with the sweets of peace and rural life* 
See Cincinnatus quit the city's strife,. 



142 SOLITUDE. 

His fields, his gardens, then his only care, 

And, at his country's call, see him repair 

To Rome, and hush rude factions with his voice, 

A consul's pomp and dignity to wear, — 

Deserved honor, — and forego his choice, 

When simple pleasures most his heart rejoice ; 

He left the plough, seclusion's calm content, 

To guide the helm of Rome's imperial government. 

XIII. 

With thee delighted dwelt great Washington, 

When he fair freedom's cause had nobly won : 

In Vernon's shades the hero sought retreat, 

And shunn'd admiring crowds, meek peace to greet. 

Hail ! ho'nor'd spot, where virtue found repose ! 

Illustrious chieftain ! where thy life did close : 

Columbia's champion, rich in lasting fame, 

Where floats her banner, — there shall live thy name. 

Wide may it float ! May none its haughty eagle tame. 

xiv. 

O say, what happy hours the patriot knew, 
When he, from honors and the world, withdrew, 
His mighty work achieved, — peace smiling round, 
Fair cities rising on the forest ground, 



SOLITUDE. 143 

Plenty her full urn emptying on the land, 

And after toil, reposing that firm band, 

Who bled for their Columbia's liberty ! 

Behold her, then, the glorious and the free, — 

Her purple orchards bloom, her tall ships plough the sea. 

xv. 
When hush'd the war-drum in the Western wild, 
And fainting Liberty look'd up and smil'd, 
When roll'd the death-shot no more o'er the deep, 
And cruel War clos'd his red eye in sleep, — 
Then Sumter, too, bent with the weight of age, 
With cheering hope, forsook life's busy stage : 
Methinks I hear the vet'ran warrior say, 
" Lo ! fly oppression's threat'ning clouds away, 
And, o'er this flow'ry land, smiles Freedom's opening 
day!" 

XVI. 

Corsican chief! not so didst thou retire 
From bloody plains and cities wrapt in fire, 
W r ho, — -mad ambition's fool, — all red with gore, 
Brittania pris'ner to Helena bore ; 
Dreary, I ween, was solitude to thee ; 
Pale murder didst thou, in thy visions, see, 



144 



SOLITUDE. 



When Waterloo rose, ghastly, to affright 
Thy guilty soul, in hours of silent night, 
And thy sick heart turn'd, heavy, from the dismal sight. 

XVII. 

Awaking with a groan, I hear thee cry, 

" Gaul's conquering eagle hath forgot to fly, — •■ 

Is this my glory, — this my wide renown ? 

Where Europe's sceptre, — where her starry crown ? 

Vainly for me, have thousands bravely bled ! 

Vainly, I bear this mountain-load of dread ! 

O ! might I skim yon, dark-blue, echoing sea, 

And wave my standard, and once more be free ! 

Alas, ye frowning rocks ! alas, it may not be ! 

XVIII. 

" My flat late did seal a nation's fate, 
A conqueror,— abandon'd,* — desolate ! 
In chains! Hear it, O sluggish France! In chains. 
This the proud meed of all my toils and pains ? 
What voice was that ? Ha ! Moscow, do I hear 
Thy infants' cries rise on the troubled air ? 
And hark ! weak woman's fearful shriek was there ! 
The snow-drift, ting'd with red, o'er bleeding forms ; 
Avaunt, foul sight! I no more vex the world with 
storms!" 



* 



SOLITUDE. 145 

XIX. 

Retir'd, when cruel persecution rose 

Within his rocky cell, shelter'd from foes, 

The patient hermit breath'd his humble prayer, 

Thank'd heav'n for kind deliverance from fear, 

Pitied mankind's delusion and forgave : 

With him dwelt sacred peace. Delightful cave,—* 

Unlike the bitter den where cynics rave, 

And scoff at man, like stern Diogenes, — 

Athenian Timon, — they who rail'd at joy and ease. 

xx. 

O, what can earth bestow to soothe the heart, 

Where rankles, evermore, grief's ruthless dart, 

Which pleasure charms not, — wo hath all subdued, 

Like thee, O meditative Solitude? 

While memory pours forth a mighty flood, — 

Displays the living past, — hastes to infuse 

Its glorious light, — while the slow-circling blood 

Flies swifter through the veins at its reviews, 

And varied joy, once more, the pensive soul imbues, 

XXI. 

Hail, Solitude ! sweet soother of the heart 
Forlorn, bow'd under grief's corrosive smart, 

N 



146 SOLITUDE. 

With thee it learns, while musing on the past, 

How soon life's sunny mom is overcast, — 

How false is hope,— how changing is man's state, 

How many evils on his being wait ; — 

Then, haply, heav'nward turns the tearful eye 

On things that fade not o'er the arching sky : 

With thee, when rightly us'd, man learns to live and die. 



There, with the Christian, heav'nly spirits dwell, 

And what his joys, the minstrel may not tell ; — 

Communion high and intercourse divine, 

Heav'n's own celestial beams there on him shine,- — 

His soul there ripens for seraphic climes, 

And, from this grovelling earth, his spirit climbs ! 

O, serious Solitude ! the Christian's joy, 

For him thy charms can nought on earth destroy, 

While angels, bending, smile there on his blest employ! 






THE LAST HOME. 



The tempests of life, O when will they close 1 
O when will the weary find lasting repose 1 

In the home of the grave, 

Where the sad willows wave, 
When darkness is theirs, and silent their woes. 

O when will the voice of man's weeping be still ] 
And the sorrowful tear his eye no more fill? 

When the yellow sunbeam 

On his last home doth stream, 
And th' ray of the moon from behind her cloud hill. 

O when will the tones of unkinclness be vain, 
And vex not his heart with keen anguish again 7 

As he sleeps in the tomb, 

With paleness for bloom, 
And round him are patt'ring big drops of cold rain. 



148 THE LAST HOME. 

O when will the soul pine no more for the lost, 
Nipp'd early, too early, by death's bitter frost ? 

When his pillow is deep, 

And lasting his sleep, 
And his beautiful frame lies mould'ring in dust. 

O when will earth's hopes no longer betray, 
And fade like the visions of morning away? 

When the dreamer lies cold, 

In the dank, dismal mould, 
Forever shut out from sunshine and day, 






HENRY VIII, AND HERNE, THE HUNTER 



Scene — Windsor Castle. Time — Midnight. 

Loud roars the ratt'ling thunder through the sky, 
And lurid light'ning glances vivid by, 
Storm-clouds are whirling on with rapid might, 
Fierce shriek the winds, — terrific is the night! 
While one upon old Windsor's rampart stands, 
With royal brow and sceptre-swaying hands : 
About his kingly form, a robe of state, 
Haughty his steady glance, his step elate, — 
As though the war of nature pleased him well, 
And strengthen'd in his breast each purpose fell. 
Behold ! a figure dim, amid the gloom, 
Confronts the king, and boldly speaks his doom ; 
With antler'd front and form of giant height, 
The mighty hunter strode before his sight, — 
Heme, leading spirit bands, — a demon dread, — ■ 
Strange link between the living and the dead ; 
For, once, a forester of fair repute, 
He hunted with the king and led his suite ; 
n2 



. 






150 HENRY VIII, AND HERNE, THE HUNTER* 

By rivals' hate and wrong t'was his to die, 

Yet never in the tomb could peaceful lie : 

Advancing now, with dark, defying look, 

And scornful gesture, loudly thus he spoke : 

"Henry, foul tyrant! evil is that heart, 

Which bids thy loyal spouse with shame depart, 

And seeks Brittania's regal crown to place 

On a fair maiden of inferior race. 

Pause ere this act! for Catherine's spotless fame 

Thou canst not soil, while men will curse thy name. 

Ruthless the deed, false king! I dare defy 

Thy deathful wrath ; — *men fear thee, — -never I ! 

An airy ghost, from viewless worlds I come, 

And warn thee, monarch, of an awful doom. 

Drunk with the blood of victims, man of crime 8 ! 

Queens will denounce thee, slaughter'd in their prime ; 

None shall delight thee long : — beheaded soon, 

Thy favorite Annie hath the axe her boon ; 

Well her deep cunning wilt thou quick repay, 

Another, then, thy fickle heart shall sway; 

She too must die ! Crime thickens round thy path, 

Oppression stamps thy reign, relentless in thy wrath* 

Ever as thou dost plan some bloody deed, 

I'll haste to warn: — -wilt thou that warning heed? 

Three days before thou diest, will I appear, 

To tell thee, death, thy king, O king, is near I 






HENRY VIII, AND HERNE, THE HUNTER. 151 

On thy sad weary bed of ling'ring pain, 
Thou'lt crave thy Catherine's truthful love in vain ; 
For she alone, adorning now thy throne, 
Loves thee, ingrate ! and for thy self alone. 
Base hounds shall, howling, lap thy purple gore, — 
Fiends haunt thy tomb, accurst forever more ; — 
And, down to latest time, thy baleful mind 
Shall awe with wonder all of human kind. 
Monster of sin ! detested, murd'rous, proud, 
Disgrace attends thee, mould'ring in thy shroud ! 

They bind thy form 
In robe of state, 
As though the worm 
Would fear the great. 

Where is the frown 
Men quailed to see? 
Down, tyrant! down, 
The grave for thee ! 

"Ha!" silent grown 
That boding cry : 
Hard heart of stone I 
Thou, too, canst die. 






152 HENRY VIII, AND HERNE, THE HUNTER. 

The purple pall 
Is o'er thee cast ; 
Quiet and small 
Thy home at last. 

O ! pomp of power ! 
Vain art thou here ; 
In dying hour, 
None heed thy snare* 

Blood-stain'd and grim, 
Lay him away, — 
None weep for him, 
Joy crowns the day!" 

The iron-hearted monarch, moveless stilly 
Defying, undismayed, resolved in will, 
With proud defiance braves the spirit chief, 
And answers thus, with words severe and brief: 
" I'll scour these ancient woods, thou demon dire ? 
And hunt thee down with dogs and steel and fire. 
Henry of England dares each mortal wight, 
And dismal fiend from spirit worlds of night." 
Wild laugh'd the hunter on his coal black steed ; 
"Ho! ho!" he cried, and to the wood did speed, 



HENRY VIII, AND HERNE, THE HUNTER. 15H 

His neighing courser furious paw'd the ground, 
And sought old Windsor's groves with rapid bound ; 
While, ever as he fled, Heme backward threw 
A glance like lightning, blinding to the view ; 
And still he shouted, "Tyrant, thou shalt die, 
Thy name provoke a nation's obloquy !" 






TIS NIGHT. 



" It was a &ad yet pleasing thought, — I might there visit the 
tombs of my fathers." 



'Tis night, the hoarse resounding deep 

Lifts up its awful voice, 
And foam-crowned billows onward sweep, — 

Aloud the winds rejoice. 

Dash on, ye ever restless waves, 

On roll, thou mighty sea ! 
Hark ! how the west wind raves ! 

A glorious night for me. 

Majestically calm on high, — 

Cloud-pillow'd queen of night, 

Meek Dian opes her tender eye, 
With silver radiance bright. 

Resplendent orb, now first I hail 

Thy beams on waters blue, 
And never yet thy visage pale, 

O'er me such gladness threw. 






155 



Thrilling and wild is my delight, — 
While fresh the loud winds blow, 

And through the rest-inviting night, 
Onward, still on I go. 

I go to seek a stranger land, 

Belov'd, though yet unseen, — 

Where, with her sceptre of command, 
Proud sits the Island Queen. 

My hero sires! 'tis there ye rest, — 
Your well-fought battles done, 

With all your fame upon the breast 
Of chainless Caledon. 

And thou, brave chief! * her flag who bore, 
Triumphant midst her foes, — 

Light of my line, may I weep o'er 
The place of thy repose ? 

Strangers will point me out thy grave, 

I shall no alien be, — 
I journey o'er the dark-blue wave, 

My dead ! I come to thee. 

* Sir Alex. Scrimzeour. 



DREAMS. 



Methought on a tall cliff I stood s — 
Below me roared the mountain flood, 
The wolf's long howl came on my ear, 
Around me gather'd darkness drear, 
The sounding wind went rushing by, 
Deep mutt'ring thunder roll'd on high, 
I shudder 'd, — woke, — it was a Dream, 

Methought I was within a hall 
Of banquet and high festival : 
Ravishing music swept along, 
Blithe were the giddy, mirthful throng ; 
Jewels were blazing round,— perfume, 
Floated delicious through that room ; 
I smiled, I woke, — it was a Dream. 

Methought on a green hill I lay, 
Purling, the soft stream wound its way 
Clear by my side, — the turtle's note 
Flow'd sweetly from its mournful throat 5 



DREAMS. 157 

The wild deer bounded by; — the breeze 
Sigh'd gently through the spreading trees ; 
I listen'd, started, — 'twas a Dream. 

Methought near yonder church-yard scene 

I was : around, the hillocks green 

Dew-sprinkled, glitter'd in the light 

Of the pale moon, — the marble white 

Slow moved, — they rose, the lov'd, the dead,— * 

All shadowy, though grim and dread : 

A cry burst from me,— 'twas a Dream, 

Methought on the broad ocean's breast 
I sail'd, as eve's meek mournful crest 
Shed paly beams around ; I fell : 
Cold gurgling water's heavy swell 
Rang in my ear, — a monster's touch 
I shrinking felt ! — it was too much : 
I struggled, woke, — it was a Dream. 

Within an ancient castle's wall 
Methought I was : the solemn fall 
Of sculptur'd bust and sever'd stone, 
Forlornly echoed round ; time gone 
Came back upon my thoughts, — the wing 
Of owlet flapp'd, — gray ruins flung 
Their shadows round, — it was a Dream, 



158 DREAMS. 

Immortal man ! whose restless mind 

Controlling slumber cannot bind ; 

Which soars, in the dark hour of night, 

To heav'n and o'er the earth, — whose might 

Death cannot conquer, chains control, 

O, give to heaven the undying soul, 

Where it shall rest, when past earth's Dream. 



THERE IS A LOV'D HOUR. 



There is a lov'd hour, — 'tis the hour of repose, 
When the mild evening shades all silently close ; 
When no sunshine or heat, companions of day, 
Appear on the earth, — when the sorrowful pray ! 

There is a sweet hour, — 'tis the hour of dark night, 
W T hen beautiful dreams bring their solemn delight ; 
Restoring the lost, the heart's dearest treasure, — 
Sweet is that hour, mysterious its pleasure. 

There is a sad hour, — 'tis the hour of waking, 
When morning smiles, but the lone heart is breaking ; 
O, 'tis sad to look over the cheerful earth, 
And say, "I have nothing to do with its mirth!" 



CARRAVAGIO, 



Why, stem misfortune, dost thou shed 
Thy chilling blight on early fame, 

When genius bows the drooping head, 
Yet can no kind compassion claim? 

Beneath Italia's sunny skies, 

Neglected merit sadly fell ; 
When Carravagio closed his eyes, 

And bade the ungrateful world farewell. 

The meanest peasant to his home, 

At evening's hour, might blest repair ; 

But see the houseless wand'rer roam: 
Ah! what had he to bless or cheer? 

A galling sense of cruel wrong, 

A deep disgust at human pride, 

Which left him thus, because his tongue 
Had no base arts of flattery tried.. 



€AKRAVAGIO. 16] 

Wearied, resentful, wild despair 

Seized on the artist's mighty soul; 

No pitying friend stood mournful near, 

As death's cold tremors o'er him stole, 

But, by the wayside faint and worn, 

Heaving a deep and bitter sigh, 
Feeling that none were left to mourn, 

He laid him down, forlorn, to die ! 

The master mind, skill'd to portray 

Strong passion with consummate art ; 

Crushed and o'ermaster'd there he lay, 

Hope, man's last friend, forsook his Ir 

How shall the muse the tale disclose ? 

'Twill claim compassion's melting tear ; 
Sad sequel to a life of woes, — 

Gaunt famine stretch'd him on his bi 



o2 



01 WEEP FOR THE DOOMED. 



O ! weep for the doom'd, who, youthful in years, 
Soul-weariness know and sorrowful tears; 
On the threshhold of life, who feel its decay, — 
Heart withered, who pass uncomplaining away. 

Lament for the young, who yet in their prime, 
Have nothing to hope in the future of time ; 
Whose eyes on the past and on ruin are chained, 
Till thought grows too darkly and dreadfully pain'd. 

What anguish is theirs ! In cold creeping"age, 
The impress is fainter on life's ending page ; 
But the blood-print of wo, enstamped on their lot, 
Deep colors their being, until they are not. 

Their token is carried on features as pale 
As the white lily's leaf, that blows in the vale ;. 
Their eye hath a brightness high hope cannot give, 
With death at the core, how smiling they live !, 



O ! WEEP FOR THE- DOOMED- 163 

O ! show me that smile, — I know it full well ; 
What languishing wo does it silently tell! 
Desolation is there, and a proud touch of scorn, 
For the sordid of earth, to bright, fortune born. 

Perhaps they are gifted, — full often they are, 
And the temple of fame they see from afar, 
As the mariner views the shore from the sea, 
Yet knows that his grave in wild ocean must be. 

I remember an eye, dark glancing with fire, 
And a pale face that leant, entranc'd, o'er the lyre, 
And a smile, whose sad meaning no words can portray, 
But that crush'd one has pass'd from; the cold world 
away. 

She staid not to wither, — a parentless flower, 
When chill winds were whistling and leafless the bow'r; 
In the land of the stranger, a late autumn rose, — 
She sleeps where her hopes and her kindred repose, 



FORGIVENESS. 



" "Weep for the weary heart condemn'd 

To one long lonely sigh ; 
Whose lot has been in this cold -world, 

To dream, despair, and die." L. E. L. 



ABBOT. 

" When swift tow'rd death's dark gates we tend. 
When mournful mother, sister, friend, 
Look sad)y on the wasted form, — 
Poor wreck of life's relentless storm; 
Ah ! bury then each thought of wrong, 
Forgiveness speak with faltering tongue. 

Though cruel seem'd the chast'ning rod, 
And dire the pathway thou hast trod ; 
Though crush'd and blighted was thy hearty 
Pierc'd by cold envy's sleepless dart, 
While falsehood spread her tangling snare, 
Forgive thy foes, — grim death is near." 

LADY. 

" But there is one, — a stately one, 
I lov'd as none beside have done ; 



i 



FORGIVENESS. 

Who talked of love, but scorn instead 
Heap'd on my lowly bended head ; 
And after hope, long, long delay'd, 
Mock'd at the ruin he had made. 

O, with what full, confiding trust, 

I lean'd upon that stay of dust ! 

What wealth of tenderness I gave, 

And well am I repaid ! The grave 

Is yawning wide, — grief sends me there,- 

Yet o'er it will he shed no tear. 

And now, at weary life's sad close, 
Reviewing all my ceaseless woes, 
The wasted hours of sunny youth, 
The goodly world, my slighted truth ; 
I feel such deep resentment rise, 
As bars my spirit from the skies." 

ABBOT. 

"Daughter," the aged Abbot said, 
And laid his wan hand on her head, 
"These earthly sorrows cast aside, — 
Say, for whom He, the mightiest, died? — 
His creatures and his foes. Dar'st thou 
Refuse this foe thy pardon now !" 



165 



163 FORGIVENESS. 

And sweetly from that couch of death, 
While panting came the suff 'rer's breath, 
She rais'd her clear resplendent eye, 
Mild, and of heav'n's own liquid die : 
And softly sigh'd, "blest may he live! — - 
I bless him, yes ! and I forgive." 
Nature's last effort o'er, she slept ;' 
And, by her side, the Abbot wep t. 






I 



WHAT IS FAME? 



What is that highly-valued, oft-sought prize, 

Dear to the foci, alike dear to the wise ? 

What is man's day dream, and his nightly thought? 

O'ermastering passion, in his soul deep wrought, 

Which no discouragement can ever tame ? 

'Tis deep desire, — 'tis longing after Fame. 

This drove the conqueror's bloody car to war, 
Rear'd pyramids on Egypt's plains afar ; 
With splendor deck'd Italia's lofty fanes, 
And carv'd her curious statues, with deep pains : 
Torturing the artist's brain to gain a name, 
For other times t' admire, — to die with Fame. 

The pallid, meagre student, poring o'er 

Volumes of modern and of ancient lore, 

With sunken cheek, and eye grown dim, appears; 

Aged he seems, although of youthful years. 

What robb'd his glowing cheek of bloom? — the flame 

Quench'd in his once bright eye? 'Twas love of Fame. 



168 WHAT IS FA31E? 

This decks the fair one in her gay array, 
Like insect, fluttering of a summer's day: 
'Tis this consumes her time, as oft she stays 
Before her mirror's front, to turn and gaze ; 
This her high boon, the magic of a name 
Admir'd, entwin'd with beauty's envied Fame. 

This carves the tomb-stone o'er the village swain ; 

Records his virtues, and calls back again 

The memory of his simple tale. 'Tis this 

That makes the statesman's honor bliss. 

Man's object, hope, desire, and highest aim, 

Is blent with thee, O faithless, earth-born Fame ! 

This governs sordid Mammon's grasping slave, 

And bids his pining spirit lucre crave : 

With iron heart, and cruel niggard hand, 

Behold the miserable miser stand ! 

To honor blind, and blind, alike, to shame, 

Can he but win wealth's long-sought, worthless Fame. 

Arise, my soul ! a nobler hope be thine ; 

The alluring voice heed not ! but, soaring, twine 

Thy love round heav'nly joys that never die, 

And never change. Arise ! see, far on high, 

Blazing o'er crumbling worlds, the saint's fair name, 

Immortal, dwell in heaven's bright book of Fame ! 



THE DEPARTED. 



*'0 tears are a most worthless token, 

When hearts, they would have sooth'd, are broken." — L. E, L. 

Bid sorrow cease, 

She rests in peace, 
Her task at last is done ! 

And deck'd with youth, 

And bright with truth, 
Cold lies thy martyr 'd one ! 

But thine the crime, 

And through all time, 
Remorse shall follow thee, 

With phantom form, 

Through calm and storm, 
On land and on the sea ! 

Her shadowy hair, 

Her bosom fair. 
So often heaving sighs ; 

Her smile so bland, 

Her lily hand, 
Her mildly mournful eyes, 



170 THE DEPARTED 

Which no more weep 
In troubled sleep, 

How lovely will they come y 
All fresh with life, 
With charms all rife, 

From out the marble tomb ! 

Her voice of love, 

All price above, 
Shall speak as once it spoke. 

With gushing flow 

Of tender wo, 
The while her heart was broke : 

When thy distrust 
Had bow'd to dust 

Her bosom's modest pride, 
Ere like a flower, 
Beneath the shower 

Too rude, she meekly died, 

'Twill whisper soft, 
"Belov'd, how oft 

Thy brow grows dark and stern ! 
I know not why, 
Yet in thy eye 

Strange coldness I discern. 



THE DEPARTED. 171 

"This inward grief, 

Without relief, 
Thou only canst control ; 

A heavy blight, — 

The spirit's night, — 
Lies darkly on my soul." 

These accents clear, 

Thy waking ear 
Shall lose in silence dread; 

But from thy heart 

Shall ne'er depart 
The wailing of the dead. 

Her wasted bloom, 

Her early doom, 
Shall haunt thee evermore ; 

While she, at rest, 

With spirits blest 
Lives on the better shore. 



BLAME NOT THE POET'S PLAINTIVE LAY 



" 0, friends, a mournful task is mine." — Eemans* 

Blame not the poet's plaintive lay, 
Though sad and full of wo ; 

His thoughts are ever far away, 
His tears must ever How,, 

The past, -with all its mournful light, 
Comes back upon his soul; 

And death and grief and early blight 
Before his memory roll. 

And, eagle-eyed, will genius look 

Far into future days ; 
Bright pages hath hope's golden book, 

Whereon he bends his gaze. 

But cold the blight, and keen the blast, 

O ! gifted bard, for thee, 
Who hast thy priceless treasures cast 

Upon a shoreless sea I 



BLAME NOT THE TOEt's PLAINTIVE LAY. 1T3 

The proud and cheerless light of fame 

Soothes not thy aching heart ; 
An envied and a lofty name 

Bids not pale care depart. 

Strike thy wild harp with thrilling tone, 

Sweet as the dying rose, — 
Sad as the Autumn wind's low moan, 

At evening's solemn close. 

O ! wailing still must be the strain 

Affliction's minstrel sings, — 
The lyre may not portray the pain 

Of him who sweeps its strings ! 

Thy world hath been thine own deep heart, 

With feelings pure and high ; 
Hope's beacon thou hast seen depart, — 

Thou canst but sing and die! 



P2 



THE SPIRIT VISION 



" Our life is two fold ; sleep hath its own world ? 
And a wide realm of wild reality." — Byron. 



In dreamy slumber, thou dost come 
Resplendent with celestial bloom ; 
Hail! white-robed messenger of peace, 
Bid weary wo and terror cease. 
Thy snowy pinions, o'er my head, 
Like silver clouds, be wide outspread ; 
Thy seraph beaming features bear 
The beauty they on earth did wear. 
Look down with that same glorious eye, 
That was too lovely far to die. 
I knew, I felt it could not be ; — 
Death and the grave ne'er prison'd thee : 
A moment in their grasp, then high, 
Far, far away above the sky, 
Like Jove's proud bird, I saw thee soar, 
The ocean, groves and mountains o'er, 
And claim thy kindred heaven above, 
Where tuneful stars in concert move* 



THE SPIRIT VISION. 175 

Hail ! spirit dweller of that clime 
Where never fails youth's rosy prime : 
Thy waving tresses odors shed, 
Streaming in light around thy head ; 
What lambent splendor round thee plays ! 
Thy face emits transcendant rays. 
Speak! let the music of thy voice 
My charmed ear once more rejoice : 
How soft the tone ! it breathes of hours, 
When I, amidst earth's sunny bowers, 
With thee did share unearthly joy, 
Whose records time shall ne'er destroy. 
Fade not away ! delay thy flight, 
O, leave no more my ravish'd sight ; 
Alas ! thy white wings cleave the air, 
Spirit beloved, ah canst thou hear? 
O, bear sweet memory of my love, 
To yonder cloudless realms above. 



TO LILLY. 



When scented violets op'd their laughing eyes, 

And purple daisies flower'd beneath the skies, — 

The Spring-like skies of soft and golden hue, 

Another flow'ret bloom'd beneath my view, 

Whose angel form and eye of purest light, 

And rose-bud lip and smile celestial bright, 

Seem'd won from worlds of innocence and bliss, 

Too gentle and too seraph-like for this : 

But mournful grows my heart, fair child! for thee, 

And shadows rise in dim futurity ; 

Earth is too cold and sad for one so dear, 

Thou wingless angel ! wand'ring from thy sphere ; 

I would not see the earth-stain mar thy spotless mind, 

I would not have thee hear one word unkind ; — 

O, I would ever shield, sweet babe ! thy life 

From slander's pois'nous breath, and care, and strife; — 

I would that life one rosy Spring might prove, 

And nought approach thy steps save truth and love. 

Vain wish ! if spar'd thou art through coming years, 

Man's doom is thine, and it is blent with tears ! 






TO LILLY. 



177 



My lovely infant ! thou dost slumber now, 

With dimpling cheek and calmness on thy brow, 

Unconscious all of what the world may be, 

A strange and wild'ring place perchance to thee. 

Now hope awakes within my sadden'd heart 

And glowing visions into being start ! 

I see thee, beauty-crown'd and genius-blest, 

Rank nobly with earth's gentlest, first and best ; 

Feeble thy limbs; thy bird-like voice is weak, 

Bland is thy face and eloquently meek ; 

Thy little velvet-hand is soft and fair, 

And rich the hue of thy bright Saxon hair ; 

Is early death for thee, beloved one ? 

Babes, young as thou, sleep calm beneath the stone ; 

And, in the realms of everlasting light, 

Are cherub-children beautiful and bright : 

Lo ! more than mortals lovely, blest they stand 

Amid the flow'rs of heaven, — that infant band ! 

O ! I should weep my loss, but still my sighs, 

And tearful yield thee, angel, to the skie? 






THE DYING CHILD'S REQUEST, 



" Mother, don't let them cany me away down to the dark, cold 
church-yard, but bury me in the garden, — in the garden, mother !" 



O, mother! in yon church-yard dread, 

Lay not your little one, 
Where marble tomb-stones, o'er the dead, 

Are shining in the sun. 

I know, dear mother! I must die, 
But let me not go there ; — 

In that sad place I fear to lie, 
It is too cold and drear. 

In our sweet garden I will rest, 

Beneath the orange tree, 
The mocking bird there builds her nest, 

And she will sing o'er me. 

And there, next Spring, will roses, too, 
Bloom red upon their stalks, 

And hyacinth and hearts-ease blue 
Flourish beside the walks. 



THE DYING CHILD'S REQUEST. 179 

The church-yard, mother! is too far, 

So far from you and home, — 
It looks so wild when evening's star 

Hangs in heaven's azure dome. 

Then promise, mother! near to you 

My little grave shall be, 
Where hyacinth and hearts-ease blue, 

Grow by the orange tree. 

The dying child could speak no more ; 

When her last wish was told, 
Death's paleness spread her visage o'er, 

Her lips grew white and cold. 

Her narrow tomb, amidst the flowers, 

Was in the garden made ; 
And oft that mother weeps, for hours, 

Beneath the orange shade. 

And when those flowrets bloom and blush, 

With rich and varied dyes, 
She thinks, and bids her sorrows hush, — 

"My flower blooms in the skies." 



TO THE DEPARTING YEAR, 



We see thee go, and thou hast borne away 
Some dearly lov'd, now mingling with the clay, 
Whose eye of light and voice of music sweet, 
Are no, more here, our yearning love to meet, — 
Who at thy coming smiled, nor thought of gloom,— 
The fair of earth, cut down in youthful bloom. 

But thou art gone ! thine early flowers have pass'd ! 
Thy gentle gales have fled,- — thy chilling blast, 
Thy smiles, thy gloom, thy sunshine, and thy storms 
Have all swept by, and, with thy frowns and charms, 
Our joys and griefs, alike, forgotten go: 
Such is thy changing state, O man ! below. 

Fly swiftly on, — ye winged hours ! and bear 
Me through this toiling scene of pain and care, 
And memory ! cease, with all thy visions fair, 
To call up scenes that prompt the silent tear. 
Ye spectral shades of vanish'd joys ! retire, — = 
That shone on life with evanescent fire. 



» 



TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. ' 181 

Roll on thy rapid car, — all conquering Time ! 
Bear, — bear me hence to some far fairer clime, 
Where hopes exstatic die not, — sorrows fly, — 
And tears no more o'erflow the joyous eye, 
Where downcast disappointment may not come, — 
Bear me to rest, — kind journeyer! bear me home. 

Be hush'd, my heart ! till heaven proclaim thee free, 
Sojourn in fear, — and heaven thy strength shall be ; 
Spurn earthly ills and joys .; — look to His throne ! 
March, fearless, on ! and when thy task is done, 
A white wing'd seraph, — sweep the rapt'rous chord 
On golden harp, to praise thy mighty Lord. 



LOVE FOREVER NEW. 



Smooth that fair and noble brow, 
Let thy smile of gladness beam ; 
Anxious thoughts oppress thee now, 
Men and life ungracious seem ; 
"Days are dark and friends are few," 
Bui my love is ever new. 

Well I know thy priceless worth, 
All unstain'd by dross of earth ; 
Though the persecuting frown 
Seeks to weigh thy merit down s 
Note it not, but fix thy view 
On a love forever new. 

In thy dignity of mind, 

I my truest solace find ; 

And I feel a future day 

Shall be thine with cloudless ray : 

Till that morning greet thy view, 

Thou hast love forever new. 



LOVE FOREVER NEW. 183 

Courage ! arm thee for the strife, 
Spurn the ills of passing life, 
Spurn oppression's iron rule, 
And prejudice, that plays the fool, 
Forward send thy hopeful view, 
Thine is love forever new! 



EARTHLY HOPE. 



Who calFd thee charmer, Hope ? From thee s 
Deceitful, I would ever flee, 

Nor trust thy dream ; 

For, 'neath thy beam, 
Is darkness, — darker for the light 
Thou shed y st a moment, vision bright! 

Thou art not mine. I ask thee not, 
Oft woo'd by man, to bless my lot, — - 

For thou dost bring 

A bitter sting 
To trusting hearts :— when thou art past, 
Comes disappointment at the last ! 

Go where thou'rt sought, fair maid, and shed 
Bright light around thy victim's head ; — 

Tell of true love ; 

Make friendship prove 
Lasting on earth, — but he will find 
Thorny the wreath thou leav'st behind ! 



HYMN 



Though pleasures, in their bright array, 
Strew roses o'er my sunny way, 
Their fading flow'rs may I despise, 
And heav'nward lift my longing eyes. 

If earthly hopes no longer beam, 
If fled the vision, — past the dream, 
Yet, soothing thought! there is a place 
Too joyous e'en for hope to bless. 

Should joy ne'er come o'er my sad way, 
Nor shed to cheer one smiling ray, 
My Father ! let me not repine, 
Grant bliss, not mortal, but divine ! 

Should friends, — should trusted friends, remove, 
And cease to give me love for love, 
O ! heav'niy Friend, whate'er my lot, 
Give me thy love, — Thou changest not! 

Q2 



186 HYMN. 

When disappointments, dark and dread, 
Wreathe cypress round my mournful head, 
Direct my thoughts to that fair shore, 
Where earthly ills are known no more \ 



SUNRISE 



Black night retires ! One ling'ring star 
Sends trembling brightness from afar, 
And lessens as the early dawn 
Reveals the verdant, dewy lawn; 
And now the Eastern saffron sky, 
With mellow tints, attracts the eye. 

The sun is up ! His dazzling beams 
Dart o'er the sky in ruddy streams, — 
The lordly monarch of the day, 
He moves along his lustrous way : 
Move on, O sun! since God's command 
Bids thee illumine sea and land. 

The green earth, laughing, greets thy rays, 
The wild bird tunes its varied lays, 
A sparkling lustre lights the rill, 
Which bubbles down the flowery hill. 
And grove and plain and mount and dell 
The glory of thy coming tell ! 



188 



Roll on, proud orb! All potent sun, 
When heav'n ordains, thy course is run 
And thy effulgence, erst so bright, 
Shall fade and sink in gloomy night ; 
And thy attendant worlds shall fail, 
Like the light mist before the gale! 

But, now, thou mount'st the cerule sky, 
Splendour attends thy path on high. 
What art thou like, majestic sun? 
Though far below, yet there is One 
And He, thy Maker, whose great might 
Thou nobly imagest, grand Light ! 



ALROY. 



On Persia's desert, evening closed, 
And darkness reign'd around, 

When, by the dipping fount, reposed 
Alroy, in slumber bound. 

And near at hand, his gallant steed 
Was stretch'd, but not in sleep, 

A charger good was he, at need, 
But now, — his rest is deep. 

Forth issuing from the mountain wood, 
The martin-cat descends, 

And grins beside in joyful mood, — 
To lap the blood it bends. 

The jackal scents its prey from far, 
And comes to share the meal, 

Roused by their moan, their joy to mar. 
See the grim lion steal ! 



190 ALROY. 

He shakes his mane, — his echoing voice, 
Like thunder rends the air ; 

The banqueters no more rejoice, 
But slow retire with fear. 

The lordly lion, o'er the steed, 
Growls in disdainful wrath, 

As if he said, "There is no need, 
For such, to quit my path." 

Then, slowly turning from the dead 

To where the living lay, 
He reared aloft his shaggy head, 

And roared above his prey. 

The Hebrew Prince, at that fierce sound, 
Unclosed his heavy eyes, 

And started, — now their looks have met, 
As each, in sternness, vies. 

The lion quailed before the man, 
And, sullen, turned away ; 

Alroy arose, for that deep sound 
Rang in his ear till day. 



BYRON. 



I hear a voice, impassion'd and sublime, 
Mourn, with drear pathos, o'er the wrecks of time 
While striking, with a lordly hand, the lyre, 
Immortal Byron breathes his song of fire. 
He weep.?, imperial Rome! thy fallen might, 
Tells thy proud glories o'er, now set in night, 
And wailing through that wild and soaring strain, 
Red war he paints on Waterloo's grim plain; 
Castalia's fount, Muse-haunted now no more, 
And the lost splendours of fair Hellas' shore, 
Soft Andalusia's vine-clad hills and fanes, 
The castled Rhine, the Switzer's bleak domains, 
The Eastern garden, with its deep-dyed rose, 
Moonlighted Venice ! her sad prison woes, 
His mighty genius gives at once to view, 
Cloth'd with its own dark grandeur, bold and true. 
In that deep lore, — the knowledge of the heart, 
How skill'd, let his soul-stirring song impart. 
Nature he lov'd, and drew from starry night 
Visions inspir'd of more that mortal light, — 



192 BYRON. 

The giant mountain, and the leafy grove, 
The emerald earth, the soft blue heav'n above, 
Old ocean's thund'ring roar and waveless sleep, 
The summer breeze, the north wind's ruder sweep, 
Keen lightning's vivid flash, and twilight dim, 
His varied themes, — are nobly sung by him. 
Upon his pale poetic brow was wrought 
A pow'r enstamp'd by majesty of thought : 
Disdainful of all trammels, mocking schools, 
Spurning cold critics, heedless of their rules, 
Mounting aloft to regions his alone, 
He sits supreme upon his minstrel throne ! 



CAMPBELL 



Hail, polish'd bard ! whose classic strain 
Melodious sings Hope's wide domain ; 
With magic art shows all her pow'r, — 
Life's rainbow light in darkest hour! 
Delighted bend the Sacred Nine, 
And smiling list that shell divine, 
Whose liquid numbers smoothly run, 
Like waters "-lancing in the sun. 



Wild as the night wind's deaf'ning roar 
On bleak Hibernia's Northern shore, 
And sweet as wild, the melting song, 
Which mourn'd O'Connor's tale of wrong, 
And deep pathetic music gave 
O'er Connocht Moran's bloody grave. 
Westward thy poet-genius flew, 
And Pennsylvania's beauties drew: 



194 CAMPBELL* 

The s) 7 lvau vale, the unsung wood, 
The forest vast, and murm'ring flood, 
Soft Gertrude's eyes of summer light, 
And bower with wild-rose blushes bright. 
The Indian warrior's noble soul, 
Old Albert's wisely mild control, 
Thy mandate summons into life, 
With their own poet's glory rife. 

Majestic rose the mystic strain, 

Which rais'd a spirit on the main. 

As o'er the blue Levantine tide, 

Thy spectre-boat did forward ride : 

All grandly was the scene portray'd, 

When, rushing on "through storm and shade, 

The wrathful father reach 'd too late 

A scene made dreadful by her fate, — 

Who perish'd in the waters wild, — 

His erring, but beloved, child ! 

O ne'er was marr'd thy perfect lay 
By faults which modern minstrels sway, 
But, like the day -god's beamy car, 
Thy music rolls through heav'n afar! 



SCOTT. 



I see the graceful swan float o'er 

A silver lake,* calm as of yore ; 

I stand 'mid Lithgow's ruin'd pile, 

Where Scotland's monarchs dwelt erewhile : 

Bard of the Northern harp ! with thee 

Is blent their mournful memory. 

For who shall view the ivied tow'r, 
The ruin'd stair, the sad wall-flow'r, 
Or fountain quaint, or archway high, 
When gloaming shadows o'er them lie, 
And not recall thy touching lay, 
Sweet wizard! wonder of thy day! 



* The situation of Linlithgow palace is eminently beautiful 
It stands on a promontory of some elevation, which advances 
almost into the well-known lake so often adverted to by this 
poet, and which is still frequented by swans, as in the time of 
Queen Mary, whose birth-place the palace was. The author, in. 
? 837, has often seen them there herself. 



196 SCOTT. 

When battle shook green Scotia's plains. 
And rang the bag-pipes warlike strains, 
How well her hero-chiefs withstood 
War's crimson tide, and stemm'd its flood. 
Let thy attesting song rehearse, 
Great master of the varied verse ! 

'Twas thine with skilful hand to trace 
The beauties of thy country's face, 
Her trosachs wild, her gray rocks bare, 
Where broad-wing'd eagles soar in air, 
Her heath-fields, where the mavis sings, 
Her woody knolls, and silver springs. 

Enchanted was the mountain seat, 
Where banish'd Douglas sought retreat, 
Where tree, vine, flow'r and mossy stone, 
Sky, hill and dale in splendour shone, 
As blue Loch-Katrine's placid face 
Mirror'd the beauties of the place. 

'Twas thine to paint affections kind, 
And all the charms of woman's mind ; 
Her truthful love, her noble aims, 
And ev'ry attribute she claims, 
Thy delicate perception saw ; — > 
picture complete without a flaw ! 



SCOTT. 197 

What lofty virtues ever dwell 

la the fair form of Isabel! 

What tender thought and feeling lie 

In Ellen's laughter-loving eye ! 

And Constance, Edith and sweet Clare 

Their poet's pow'r at once declare. 

But who shall tell the boundless range 
Of thy vast mind, — great in each change ! 
War, love, romance and king'ly worth, 
The hour of horror and of mirth, 
Throughout thy richly pictur'd page, 
Proclaim thee Glosy of thy age ! 



R'J 



LE.L 



SONNET.. 



Pensive enchantress ! in whose gifted mind 

High genius with sad glory was enshrin'd ; 

Who, o'er departed joys, a fun'ral wreath 

Didst, weeping, bind, — pale garland meet for death. 

A melancholy dow'r was thine, and wo, 

From crush'd affections sprung, well didst thou know 

There lay a shadow in thy radiant eye, 

Soft as the white cloud o'er the azure sky ; 

From thy own heart drear inspiration came, 

While deep, pure feeling sanctified thy fame, 

A mournful thing it is to love like thee, 

Yet deem that love but fading fantasy ; 

A mournful thing the grief that bore thee down, 

And wove the willow with thy laurel crown ! 



HEMANS 



SONNET. 



O. woman poet! wrapp'd in musings high, 
How rich, how soft and pure thy minstrelsy ! 
Whose trumpet tones arouse and thrill the heart, 
Till, from its fountain, tears of rapture start : 
Thy muse-like form and soul-lit face appear 
Like thy own Psyche's, borne on ambient air 
To pleasure's fragrant grove and golden isle, 
Where blushing fruits and heav'nly flow'rets smile : 
Thine was the inborn light, which sheds its ray 
Around the poet's mind-illumin'd way, — 
Forever changing and forever bright, 
And swaying all things with its mystic might ; 
A moral grandeur grac'd thy melting song, 
Which flow'd in numbers liquid, sweet and strong. 



CAROLAN'S LEGEND. 



" Where has not woman stood 
Strong in affection's might, — a reed upborne 
By an o'ermastering current." 



Hark ! swelling harp-notes sweep the air, the strain is 

loud and high, 
Blind Carolan, the aged bard, pours forth wild min- 
strelsy ; 
While nobles round and lovely dames attentive hear 

the tale, 
For o'er the heart for aye must poetry and song prevail. 
Full lofty was the old man's mien, his darken'd eyes 

were cast 
Up to the sky he saw not, and his soul was with the 

past. 
He sang of battle fierce, when hostile clans opposing 

met, 
When, on a field of blood and death, the sun serenely 

set; 
He mourn'd his chief, who bravely died amidst the 

meaner slain, 
"When," sang he, "shall such chieftain grace his 

haughty line again f 



carolan's legend. 201 

Sad wept the lonely lady, in her distant castle hall, 
As pale-fac'd hurrying vassals told McCartney's mourn- 
ful fall. 
Yet long she might not weep, but, rising, deck'd her 

snowy brow 
With war-plumes waving proudly, while she spoke her 

solemn vow : 
" I will avenge thy cruel end, my murder'd lord and 

love ; — 
No conqueror, from his birthright, shall thy infant son 

remove !" 
And soon that high-soul'd lady did her vow perform 

and well ; 
McCartney's foemen in wide ruin undistinguish'd fell: 
But how did she return? With music and with banners 

spread, 
They bore that lady on her bier, and she was of the 

dead! 
Her slender side a thirsty arrow pierced: with dark 

dismay 
She gaz'd upon the crimson stream, and, shudd'ring, 

turn'd away : 
Her golden tresses, loosen'd from the silken caul, 

descend, 
And catch a bloody stain. Ah ! woful sight ! Ah I 

woful end ! 



202 carolan's legend. 

Daughter of warrior chiefs! faint grows the aged 

minstrel's lays ; 
His voice is tremulous and low,— how shall he sing 

thy praise ? 
Sweet flower of Erin ! In thy youthful beauty snatched 

from life, 
And rear'd so tenderly to perish on that field of strife ! 
Loud wail'd the serfs their chief and his heroic bride, 

when lo ! 
A murm'ring sound rose on their ear with plaintive 

moan and low: 

There is fear in the wood 
When the dark mountain flood, 

Loud rushing, rolls past, 

Its bound it o'erleaps, 
And triumphantly sweeps, 

With its foam-waves vast. 

The strong, spreading oak 
Withstands not the shock, — 

Uprooted it lies ; 
Thus McCartney is low, 
'Neath the sword of his foe, 

And never can rise ! 



GAKOLAn's LEGEND. 203 

Like the flow'r-scented vine, 
That round it did twine, 

All crush'd when it fell, 
Pale and dead at thy side, 
O Chief, is thy bride ; — 

Forever farewell! 

The orphan boy, McCartney's heir, his kinsman bore 

away, 
And rear'd with pious care, and taught him skill in 

battle fray. 
In distant lands he travell'd far, where burning skies 

hang o'er 
The thirsty earth. But wo is me ! for he return 'd no 

more ! 
A blight was on that house decreed by heav'n, and 

timeless fate 
Hath made their ancient dwelling lone and darkly 

desolate : 
The yellow wall-flow'r blooms in sadness there ; the 

ivy throws 
Its greenness o'er decay, where once the stately turrets 

rose, — 
And, for the joyous dance, gay feast, and harper's festive 

song, 



204 carolan's legend. 

Owls whoop and ravens cry the crumbling battlements 

among. 
Fast by, a withcr'd tenant dwelt, more dreaded far than 

they,— 
Wiich-of-the-Crag, forlorn, old Joan roam'd the live- 
long day ; 
Her voice was hoarse, her garments threadbare, and 

her mutt'ring tongue 
Forever darkly hinted tales of deep and secret wrong. 
The tim'rous cottars fled, when inj.he shadowy glen at 

eve, 
That gray-haired wand'rer sat her sadly down alone 

to grieve : 
She spoke to ears, that long ago alas ! were deaf and 

cold, 
And call'd the dead, who answer'd not beneath the 

silent mould : 

"Wake! wake!" she cried, "sleepers, awake! 
The bittern wails in yonder brake, 
The voice of gladness long has fled, 
The voice of sorrow weeps instead, — 
And where, O where are ye ? 

I know where rests my valiant lord, 

His noble breast with wounds deep gor'd, 



I 



205 



I know where thou, my lady bright, 
Art slumb'ring near thy dauntless knight 
The banish'd! where is he? 

Who said, in other lands he died? 
Falsely they say. Should Erin's pride, 
Last scion of a race so high, 
In foreign climes neglected die? 
His tomb is not found there ! 

Ask his proud kinsman all elate, — ■ 
He'd blanch to tell the chieftain's fate, 
Who, in cold blood, the weapon drew, 
That smote his generous breast and true, 
Nor knew relenting fear. 

Alas ! these aged eyes have seen 
The strong of soul, the bold of mien, 
Depart from earth as sunbeams go, 
While I yet linger with my woe, 
Nor gain my last release. 

A hireling vile, a coward slave, 
The last McCartney to the grave 
Vilely betray'd ! — my son ! my son ! 
That deed of thine was basely done, 
And slew thy mother's peace." 



206 carolan's legend. 

Who shall his fate unfold? The serfs declar'd no son 

had she, 
And deemed her words but sprung from age and erring 

fantasy ; 
Yet well I wot it chilPd the trav'lers heart at evening 

gray, 
When Joan's boding song was heard beside the way. 
At last a stranger came, unknown, upon whose pallid 

face 
Toil-harden'd vice and evil deeds left many a gloomy 

trace : 
Straight to the witch's crag, he held his onward way, 

and bow'd 
His stricken form before the aged dame, and cried 

aloud : 

" Mother, I come, all red with gore, 
Thy child beloved, and blest of yore, 
But now a woful man ! 

By me McCartney's blood was spilt, 
I seek no cover for my guilt, 
But yield me to his clan. 

The gold, that was the price of life, 
Could never quell my bosom's strife, — 
Murder was on my soul ! 






carolan's legend. 207 

By sea and land 'twas mine to stray, 
Horror companion of my way, 
And anguish past control!" 

The wrathful clansmen soon the traitor seized and 

doom'd to die, — 
But his mien alter'd not, nor quailed his cold and 

daring eye ; 
His bones upon a gibbet clatter'd to the summer wind, 
Old Joan, wistful, gaz'd and wept, nor linger'd long 

behind ! 






MY EARLY DEAD. 



My early dead ! from this false earth, 
Bedeck'd with scenes of hollow mirth, 
From friendship, flattery and love, 
Thou'rt gone ! nor didst thou stay to prove 
Life or its joys. Too soon thou'st fled I 
Too soon,-— alas, my early dead ! 

I miss thy stately step of grace, — 

I miss the sunshine of thy face ; — 

Where is thy voice of melody? 

The lustre of thy loving eye ? 

The waving hair that crown'd thy head? 

O! where are they? my early dead? 

The blooming Spring has come once more, 
And fragrance breathes from every flower ; 
Earth wears a verdant robe and smiles, — 
Each bird, with song, glad time beguiles; 
But all this beauty, round me spread, 
Palls on my heart, my early dead ! 



MY EARLY DEAD. 209 

I think upon thy lowly grave, 

So lone, — beside the ocean wave ! 

No Spring is there, — but all is cold ; 

Press'd down beneath the dark, damp mould, 

O ! dreary, dreary is thy bed, 

And long thy sleep, my early dead ! 

The moon is sailing through the sky, 
Stars, glitt'ring, gem its concave high, 
The soften'd landscape, mildly bright, 
Stands pictur'd in clear, tender light, 
But earthly beams shall no more shed 
Their rays on thee, my early dead ! 

Thy spirit lives in realms above,— 
The cloudless climes of joy and love ! 
That fair and noble form shall rise, 
And join glad angels in the skies, — 
A sparkling crown upon thy head, 
My beautiful, my early dead ! 



32 



TO ELLA. 



As miners meet rich ore, 

I met my peerless one ; 

More lov'd and priz'd, — far more, 

Than aught beneath the sun. 

Her forehead, marble white, 
Her eyes, serenely blue, 
Now dancing with delight, 
And now they softer grew. 

Her form was passing fair, 
And every motion grace, 
Dark-brown her shining hair, 
Celestial was her face. 

But on her cheek no hue 
Of rose-tints might be seen ; 
She was so pale to view, 
And glorious was her mien. 



TO ELLA. 211 

My Ella ! more belov'd, 
Than aught beneath the sun ; 
Full short thy being prov'd, 
Full soon thy race was run. 

That forehead, marble white, 
In cold, cold earth, is laid ; 
That eye, which spoke delight, 
Is hid in death's dark shade. 

That form, so full of grace, 
Fills now an early grave ; 
That pale and beauteous face 
Lies low where poplars wave. 

That dark-brown hair, the tomb 
Has cover'd from my sight, 
And thou art wrapp'd in gloom, 
My bosom's dear delight ! 



FRIENDSHIP. 



The evil eye, — the darksome frown 
Bear not his noble spirit down ; 
For he is strong in wisdom's might, 
And, judging well, pursues the right ; 
Scorning no man, — forgiving still 
The blighting purpose of their will. 

Yet I have watch'd his manly face, 
With grief and pulse of quicken'd pace, 
And ask'd my heart how such as he 
Should not admir'd and honor'd be, 
And felt deep love, — aye, and deep pride, 
Come o'er me, at his sheltering side. 

/ dare defy his every foe, 
I feel the scorn he does not know, 
And / rejoice when, for his sake, 
The storm of hate on me shall break ; 
I'll bare my breast to meet each thrust, 
And fear no feeble child of dust. 



FRIENDSHIP. 213 

Firm in the power of deathless love, 
Justice, I know, still reigns above ! 
O gifted friend ! O true and kind ! 
In action graceful, — great in mind, 
How blest must that religion be, 
Which governs men who live like thee ! 



SONNET.- 

TO THE PICTTRE OF MES. M W , DECEASED, 



Wistful I gaze, sweet picture ! on a face. 

Whose living beauty I may never trace ; 

Yet, well I wot, lost mother ! thou wast kind, 

And in thy dove-like eyes I read thy mind ; 

A guileless mind, imbued with charity, 

And gentleness and heav'nly purity. 

Death's icy arms embraced thee long ago, 

Else wouldst thou cheer me now and soothe my wo 

But angel as thou art in realms above, 

Thou view'st me with an angel's pitying love ; 

And my fair infant, sleeping on my breast, 

Invites thy guardian care from worlds of rest! 



REMORSE, 



Be sear'd, my brain, — my eye, 
Grow dim and dark ! 

My bosom, swell and sigh! 
Die, pleasure's spark ! 

Burn, — ever fiercely burn, 
My heart, — to dust: 

With gloomy anguish torn, 
Despair I must! 

Soft lilies, snowy white, 

Her breast could mock ; 

Gone from my aching sight, — - 
Slain by the shock, 

The shock of my disdain ! 

Base coward I 
To cause the feeble pain, 

To bid her die ! 




THE LONELY BANQUET HALL 



Beauty's light step, and pleasure's speaking eye. 
And sunny smile and lip of crimson dye, 
And light, aerial form, and lovely brow, 
Adorn the scene no more ! stern silence, now. 
Sits darkly brooding o'er the lonely hall, 
Where erst was seen the laughing festival. 
The starry lights, perfuming late the air, 
Are rayless now, and flow'rets blooming fair, 
That smil'd around, a dying beauty wear. 
How chang'd the scene ! 

Where are the thoughtless ones, frequenting thee, 

Thou gloom-wrapt place, with all their mirth and glee? 

Fled to some busy scene, to sport away 

The precious hours of life's swift, closing day,— 

To gather roses and to flee from gloom, 

The while they hasten to the yawning tomb ;— 

To drown the thought of death,— -to build below 

On failing sand, — to end their race in wo, 

And to another world in anguish go : 

How sad the thought ! 



THE LONELY BANQUET HALL. 217 

But as 1 tread thy all-deserted floor, 

View thy past scenes, thy mirth and music o'er, 

Pensive I muse on pleasures quickly sped ; — 

Life passes thus! Man blooms, — is with the dead! 

Like thy gay scenes, his flitting being goes, 

And, like thy quietness, his last repose; 

Like thy dead flow'rs, his vanish'd joys appear, — 

They fail to charm, they are no long dear, 

When time fast closes round, and death is near: 

And such is earth ! 



IDA. 

A BALLAD. 



O, Ida, dear, awake! 

My broken flow'r of love ! 
The moon shines on the lake, 

And on the shadowy grove. 

O, Ida, on thy grave, 

That moon is shining too ; 
And I must weep and rave, 

Who broke thy heart so true. 

Ida, I lov'd thee more, 

Far more than weary life ! 
Alas ! thy being's o'er, 

And hush'd thy bosom's strife. 

Ida, forgive ! This grief 

Is more than I can bear ; 

Vainly I seek relief, 

Nor can I shed one tear. 



IDA. 219 

Ida ! look down on me, 

My cheek is wan and thin ; 
The wasted form men see, 

But not the waste within. 

My Ida! belov'd, 

Wake from thy lasting rest ! 
Behold, I stand reprov'd, 

My folly is confest. 

Thy cup was drugg'd with wo, 

And full of misery; 
The last drops that o'erflow 

Were added there by me. 

Ida, I mourn too late ! 

Thou slumb'rest calm and deep, 
Like thine, ere long, my fate 

In death's cold arms, to sleep. 

Ida, 'twas pride, stern pride, 

That rent our souls apart; 
And now is peace denied 

To my poor, breaking heart! 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD 



"No bitter tears for thee be shed, 
Blossom of being, seen and gone." 



I look'd upon thy infant face ; — 

Could this be death ? ah, lovely one ! 

He hath not touch'd thee yet ! No trace 
Is seen to tell that thou art gone. 

And is thy deep, blue, joyous eye 

Now closed forever from the sight? 

Is thy fair, marble, forehead high 

Soon to be hid by shades of night ? 

Thy sunny locks are parted o'er 

Thy still pure visage, and thy cheek 

Is cold : and will thy smile no more 

Beam with its dimpling beauty? Speak ! 

But thou art still: no ans 'wring sound 

Comes from thy gentle lips, mute one ! 

All in the grave-clothes white, thou'rt bound;— 
O, thou hast left us, slumb'rer, soon ! 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 



221 



We will not weep for thee, lost child ! 

We know that death's dark river crost, 
'Mid heav'n's fair fields and breezes mild 

Thou'rt dwelling with the seraph host. 

Tune there thy harp, and bless thy God, 
That thou wast early call'd away, 

And never felt dark sorrow's rod, 

Young dweller in the heav'nly day! 




t2 



A 



THE DESERTED.* 



What wrath and heavy wrongs fill'd all my heart, 

Ere the deep love I bore thee could thus turn 

To deadly hate ! I tell thee even now, 

Were death's cold grasp laid on thy trembling frame, — 

Did his wild stare look from thy glassy eye, 

And his last agonies convulse the form 

I once so madly loved, 'twere joy to me ! 

Yes ! calmly could I look the while, and feel 

Dark joy, — the joy that vengeance gives when low 

A mortal enemy is laid, — -who long 

Had pow'r so to embitter life, that all 

Its pleasures chang'd to gall, — aye, and so crush 'd 

The once proud spirit, that it rose no more ! 

O, graceless mortal ! was it well, I ask, 

To win, with falsehood, woman's trusting heart, 

And then on her, with scorn, look proudly down? 

Is this thy manhood, — this the lordly feat, 

That swells so high thy wretched vanity, 

And makes thee to thyself a god? Unknown, 

* Written after reading the story of a young lady who was 
abandoned by her betrothed lover. 






THE DESERTED. 223 

O ! all unknown thy baseness was, when I 

Beheld thee, as a star of hope, the one 

Sole being on this wide extended earth, 

Who o'er me held a fearful mastery, — 

A power that humbles oft the haughtiest heart, — 

The power of love, — and this is my reward! 

For weary nights of restless wo, and days 

Of sick'ning hope deferr'd, this is my meed ! 

For tears of heavy bitterness, and sighs 

That carried life from the full heart they left ; 

And for believing thee so excellent, 

That any thought of thy unworthiness, 

Breath'd from another's lips, I hated straight 

The utterer of that thought, this is my meed! 

O ! all too long a martyr have I been 

To thy deceiving falsehood, heartless man! 

What wealth of deep affection thou aside 

Hast cast, and trampled on with cold disdain ! 

Yes ! now my heart is sear'd, and, henceforth, love 

Is banish'd from my being : 'twas a guest 

That robb'd me of my peace, which can return 

No more forever! 



SONNET. 

A LEAKY BARK, 



Blue skies smile o'er thy waters, crystal stream ! 

Plays on thy azure breast Sol's radiant beam, — 

While water-lilies on thy surface dance, 

And finny nryriads through thy clear waves glance. 

Man's eye is eager, and his heart is strong, — 

Hope guides the helm, — the light skiff glides along; 

Deceptive beauty! quickly changing scene! 

Down sinks the flying bark of gallant mien ! 

Man's strong heart fails : clos'd is his eager eye, 

A bubble on the waters, — see him die ! 

Nor storm, nor angry wind, nor surging wave 

Sent the pale wand'rer to his restless grave, 

But sunny calm, fresh flow'rs and scented air, 

Odor and beauty, light and life were round him there ! 



BALLAD. 



"Come, Hubert, to this maiden's grave, — 

Why shudder at its gloom? 
Because dark willows o'er it wave ? — 

It is poor Annie's tomb ! 

For thou didst break her gentle heart, — 

A ruffian act at best, 
And, now, well may'st thou shrink and start, 

Beside her place of rest." 

"Forbear, my friend! — O, spare thy frown: 

The arrow rankles here ; 
Remorse already chains me down, 

The pris'ner of despair. 

Too late her virtues I confess, 

Too late her charms allow, 
Alas, if she had lov'd me less, 

She were not buried now! 



226 BALLAD. 

When moonlight covers earth and sea, 
I seek this hallow'd spot ; 

No human eyes my sorrow see, 
And she regards me not. 

Aloud I cry, c Return my love ! 

Awake, my darling maid!' 
No answer, save the moan above, 

By sighing willows made. 

Methinks they murmur thus, — ' away ! 

No pity dost thou claim, 
Presumptuous ! at her grave to stay, 

Or breathe her hapless name.' 

And I go hence, so full of woes 
No slumber greets my eye, 

Still onward, as life's current flows, 
I only long to die." 

" If yet of earthly things aware, 
Hubert, she pities thee, 

And bids thee meet her spirit where 
No more despair can be." 






BALLAD. 227 

" Ah no ! her empty shade appears, 

In silent midnight hours, 
And walks, and sheds unearthly tears, 

Amongst her nursling flow'rs. 

Where once her living form I saw, 

A spectre glides along, 
As blows the night-breeze, chill and raw. 

Warbling a mournful song. 

And then it pauses, beck'ning me, 

And points to this still spot, 
O, then I pray, with bended knee, 

Some pity on my lot. 

Some kindly, soothing word or sign 

, To say I am forgiven ; — 
If granted this, I would resign 
All hope in earth or heav'n." 

" Rash mortal ! dost thou utter this, — 

When joy on earth is fled, 
And trifle, too, with heav'nly bliss, 

Beside the martyr'd dead ! 



if 



228 BALLAD. 

'Tis conscience summons up the shade, 
Thou see'st in midnight hours, 

Since she in dust and darkness laid, 
No longer heeds her flow'rs. 

Go, pay thy penance, — heavy load ! 

Thou dost deserve it well : 
Go, travel o'er life's weary road, 

More lone than words can tell." 



A SKELETON. 



Methinks from thee, all senseless as thou art, 

Fleshless and white and wither'd, void of life, 

A hollow sounding voice bids pride depart: 

"Behold," it cries, * ; the close of mortal strife, 

Of love and hope and youth ! I once was man ; 

This ghastly frame had beauty for its robe; 

1 walk'd the earth, and did wide Nature scan 

With eye intelligent. The moving globe 

Thou now inhabitest, was unto me 

A map of wonder, with its groves and hills, 

Its vales and streams. The mountains and the sea 

I lov'd to view, and I knew joy and ill, 

As now thou know'st. My spirit, soaring, free, 

Sought proud applause, and, mortal ! I was fam'd. 

The servile voice of flatt'ry met my ear ; 

Approving smiles went round, when I was nam'd ; 

Before me envy smil'd with hollow sneer, 

But dar'd not speak. Wealth on me pour'd a show'r 

Of golden treasures, and my love was giv'n 

To one more beautiful than words have pow'r 

To paint : but she hath blissful rest in heav'n ; 



230 A SKELETON. 

She died in youth, and then my joys too died; 
The faded world look'd mournful to my eyes, 
And I was early crush'd ; — fled was my pride ; 
I flung away the wreath of beauteous dies 
That bound my brow,— I fled the haunts of men. 
O, long before the flesh fell off these bones, 
I tasted bitterest death ; the wild wood glen 
Bore witness to my tears and ceaseless groans, 
\nd, in the hall of joy, I was as one 
¥/ho knew no longer fellowship with man, — - 
Until, at last, I thought a blazing sun 
Burnt on my brain ; — but ere my life was done, 
That frenzy past ; and, O ! how drear and dark 
And chill the world, those few short, lucid days, 
Ere, like a wearied child, I slept! Life's spark 
Went out, and so I died!" 



WEST INDIES 



Flow brightly soft does evening shed 
A living lustre round the shore, 

Where ocean heaves its billows dread, 
Or sternly sleeps in silent pow'r! 

Where orange groves and palm-trees tall, 
And sighing tam'rinds rise to view, 

And where the fairy birds, so small, 

From flow'rets sip the evening dew. 

The owl's low whoop, the sea-gull's cry, 
The parrot's sharp and shrieking tone, 

The heavy bat, slow whirling by, 

The gentle turtle's plaintive moan: 

These tell, — as does yon glorious sky, 

Hung with the glitt'ring lamps of night, 

A wide celestial canopy, 

Before the wond'ring, awe-struck sight, 



232 WEST INBIESo. 

That I am in a tropic clime, 

Where nature wears majestic forms ; 
Where loud, tremendous and sublime, 

Th© thunder's voice is heard in storms 



THY BEAUTY PROSTRATE IN THE DUST. 



Thv beauty prostrate in the dust! — 
Thy graces in the grave ! — 

O ! who shall earthly pleasure trust, 
Or what from death can save? 

Could beauty cheat the spoiler, thou 

Wert living by my side ; 
Could truth, — I might behold thee now, 

And with me bliss might bide. 

Did noblest bravery scare the fiend, — 
He had not seized on thee ; 

Did gentleness a mortal shield, — 
O! none could gentler be. 

Could love protect thee from his might, 
O ! thou hadst never died; 

Could honour, — 'twas thy portion bright, 
And emulative pride. 

u2 



534 THY BEAUTY PROSTRATE IN THE DUST. 

Might intellectual glory spread 
A guard round feeble man, — 

I ne'er had mourn'd thee with the dead, 
Or wept thy life a span. 

And art thou prostrate in the dust, — 
Thy beauty in the grave 1 

O ! who shall earthly pleasure trust. 
Or what from death can save ! 



THE POET'S DESTINY. 



Mourn not thy sad, thy early fate 

Lone child of Genius! dry thy tears, 

Heed not the vain with joy elate, 

Remember fame and after years. 

Though now forlorn, shall high renown 
Rise glorious from thy lowly tomb; — ■ 

Thine are the lyre and laurel crown ; 
Hapless, yet blest, the poet's doom ! 

Inspiring thought and feeling pure, 

Breathe through thy ever varied strain ; 

Minstrel ! thy song shall still endure 

When thou hast done with care and pain, 

0! lavish not on meaner things 

The love thy heav'nly art doth claim ;— 
Stern disappointment hath its stings; — 

Give all thy soaring dreams to fame. 



236 the poet's destiny. 

Scorn to the heartless, — pity mild 

To all, like thee, blind fortune's tools,- 

A song to cheer misfortune's child, — 

Keen satire for presumptuous fools ; — 

A sweet, soft hymn of grateful praise 
For generous deeds in secret done ; 

O ! these shall rouse thy loftiest lays, 

And teach thy harp its richest tone. 

Vain is thy yearning thirst for more ; 

No more of human joy thou'lt know ; 
Sorrow and song were blent of yore, 

Minstrel! fate ever wills it so. 






THE LOVED-THE LOST. 



What dreams are these 1 Awake, awake my soul I 

Earth's spells are o'er me still. Their soft control, 

Though sadly sweet and lovely, ends in wo. 

O ! then, depart. Long cherish'd vision, go I 

For I must muse no more on one whose eye, 

Fraught with deep lustre, like rich summer's sky, 

Though seldom seen, had pow'r, — O! too much pow'r 

O'er my life's joys, — which, in the silent hour 

Of contemplation, I beheld, with trust 

And vain devotedness, bestow'd on dust. 

Ah! what are lofty gifts, — the light of song, — 

An intellect refin'd and feeling strong, — 

A heart full of affections ? Blame me not ! 

For tears are woman's dower ; — her weary lot 

Condemns her, still, to mourn the lov'd, — the lost, — 

Daughter of grief! on stormy billows tost. 



ROCK EAGLE'S SONG. 



st The Chieftain went solitary to the forest. There was wrath 
on his brow and haste in his steps." 

Where wide-spread prairies, — mountains tow'ring 

high, 
Whose lofty peaks gleam out against the sky ; — 
And dark ravines and precipices deep, 
In lonely grandeur frown, and rivers sweep, 
With mighty waves and loudly rushing sound, 
On, — ever on ! — where with quick playful bound 
The unmolested deer wild sports pursue, 
And gaunt, grim Wolves skulk from the trav'ler's view; 
Where soars the eagle, — his broad pinions spread 
In fearless pride, while hissing serpents dread 
Glide past;— there is the Indian chieftain's home; — 
O'er these sequester'd scenes he loves to roam, 
His mighty deeds tells o'er, — chants the war song 
And loud his sire invokes the shades among ; — 
His martial numbers ring the hills around, — 
TV awaken'd hills give back a startling sound ; — 
Thoughts of revenge and wrong and wrathful ire 
Have lit his keen, dark eye with restless fire. 



rock eagle's song. 239 

Wo! to the pale-fac'd stranger, who intrudes 

On these wild tracts and distant solitudes; — 

For they can nourish hearts as true and brave 

As those who cross'd the broad Atlantic wave, 

Like stealthy robbers of a free-born race, — 

Usurpers of the red man's native place. 

Has he not justice and a sense of right, 

And arrows swift and frame inur'd to fight, 

To meet his foes ? Will he not sternly toil 

For his free home, — belov'd and savage soil? 

Behold yon chief! Is his a heart to quail? 

Sooner those rocks shall bend them to the gale, 

That lightly stirs the forest's trembling spray, 

And sets the lake's low curling waves at play. 

He pauses now ! Ye who have seen the West, 

At eve, with deep, dark, glowing splendour drest 

Around a sinking sun, — ye only know 

The thoughts sublime such scenes on man bestow. 

That dusky chief, albeit untaught by lore, 

Can share such thoughts in all their silent pow'r; 

See, how he gazes on the landscape round ! 

In speechless meditation wrapp'd profound. 

The angry spirit now is lulled asleep, 

And were he not a red man, he might weep. 

Before him, is a verdant mound, where lie 

His sire and sons ; — above him, is the sky, 



240 rock eagle's song. 

In glory drest. The birds of changeful voice, 
With mellow flowing trill, around rejoice; 
The roving buffalo, on far spread plains, 
Lowing is heard ;— the fox's sharper strains 
Ring shrilly near; — the wolf's drear howl 
The jaguar's angry yell move not his soul ; 
Fear is a stranger to his manly breast;— 
Though tortured, pain by him is ne'er confess 
Nor murmurs he, though keen and long the test 
But soft! the spell is o'er; he moves along, 
And thus is heard his wrathful, boding song: 

"Mighty old chief! thy hunting hills, 

That stream with clear, pure dancing rills, 

Which sweeping onward shine, — 

Until they reach their ocean bound, 

Are trod by stranger steps around, 

They are no longer mine. 

The dark fleet deer I may not chase, 

Pale foe-men take Rock-Eagle's place, — 

The place that once was thine ; 

But swift revenge spurs on ! I go 

To rain sharp arrows on our foe, 

And not in grief to pine. 

My dark-hair'd spouse calls on my name, 

But I can bring her home no game, 



Rock eagle's song. 241 

No fur-skins soft and fine, 

No pearl-shells from the far off deep ; — 

And she must sit alone and weep, 

Nor jewels round her twine. 

By all our wrongs that cry aloud, 

Like thunder from the rolling cloud, 

We will avenge these ills ! 

Like lightning, leaping to the earth, 

Or snow-drifts from the wailing North, 

We will descend these hills ; 

Wrath, blood and flames our steps attend! 

The unerring bow thy son will bend, — 

Red streams his arrow spills, 

And joy will light Rock-Eagle's eye ! 

That glorious hour is drawing nigh, 

When he will send his battle-cry 

With long, loud whoop up to the sky, 

And slay his pale-fac'd foe, or die, 

As *Areouski wills. 

Brave warrior! on the spirit-coast, 

Frowning, I see thy angry ghost, — 

Say! Shall this fight be won or lost? 

Rock-Eagle's soul is strong ! 

Ontara ! when thy son shall come, 

*The Indian God of War. 



242 rock eagle's song. 

To make the land of shades his home, 

Forever o'er bright fields to roam, 

And chant the happy song, — 

Many strong warriors will he bring, 

Who tread the war-dance in a ring, 

And battle-notes exulting sing, 

As swift they move along : 

But then ! their war-task will be o'er, 

White men shall vex their eyes no more, 

The false one then shall have no power,— 

The red man have no wrong!" 

Thus pouring forth the passion of thy soul, 
Which spurns alike oppression or control, 
Dark chief! by wrong to desperation driven, 
Thou long'st to die and reach thy Indian heaven. 



EVENING, 



i. 

The sun was sinking in the Western sky, — 

Sweetly the evening breeze went warbling by, — 

Autumnal tints a living lustre shed, — 

Red gleamed the heav'ns, — the forest bough was red, 

The spotted bay-leaf rested on the ground, — 

Purple and golden blossoms smil'd around ; 

A solitary warbler of the changeful song 

Poured forth her strains, — the groves those strains 

prolong: 
Melodious charmer of the silent vale, 
America's untaught musician, hail ! 
'Tis thine, with mimic song and varied voice, 
To bid the wanderer on his path rejoice. 



High tower'd the giant rock in solemn pride, 
The graceful vine-leaf cloth'd its craggy sid6 : 
Slow roll'd the calm majestic river wave, 
Where bending willows their long tresses lave. 



244 EVENING. 

Snow-white were lilies on the margin seen, — 
The shelving banks were velvet-soft and green ; 
The feathery pine and broad-leaved laurel spread 
Their lofty branches, mingling over head ; 
Thick-rustling canes and wide savannahs seem'd 
The fairy things by some romancer dream'd ; 
The wild duck soar'd on high with glossy wing ; 
Shrilly the grass-hopper was heard to sing, 
While milk-white butterflies, in sportive mood, 
Alighted now, and now their sports pursued. 

in. 

The sun declined. Uprose the broad-fac'd moon, 

And stars, a shining army, follow'd soon; 

The forest shades grew darker and more wild, 

As daylight clos'd around, and Luna smil'd ; 

The large-eyed owl stared from his hiding-place, 

Rejoicing, as queen Night came on apace ; 

Long wav'd the moss beneath the oak-trees hoar : — 

And faint was heard the wild waves' distant roar ! 

The glancing stream, like liquid silver, ran, 

And came no more, — so swift time glides from man ! 



I SAW HER ONCE, &c. 



I saw her once, a lovely one, 

Oa whom the glad world smil'd ; 

And beauty's light around her shone, 
With seraph influence mild. 

Long fell the locks of sunny hue 
Adown her neck of snow ; 

Her sparkling eye was darkly blue, 
Touching her voice and low. 

Sculptor ne'er bodied forth a form 
So muselike, proud and fair, 

And delicate, refin'd and warm 
Her guileless feelings were. 

The Parian brow bespoke a mind 
Rich in each noble power, 

And Nature's gifts were all combin'd 
To deck this peerless flower. 

v2 



246 I SAW HER ONCE, &C. 

But ever, from her mournful face, 
Spoke musings high and sad, 

There inward conflicts left their trace, — ■ 
Her smile was seldom glad. 

And still a gushing fount of song 
Flow'd in her yearning breast, 

Her thoughts, the worldly crowd among, 
Sought not one hour to rest. 

And there came haughty ones from far, 
Who bow'd before her charms, 

But love her quiet could not mar, 
She felt not its alarms. 

And lofty thus, with pallid cheek, 
And calm and tearless eye, 

She passed away, all sadly meek*, 
And gained her kindred sky. 



BREVITY OF LIFE! 



"But man dieth and wasteth away: yea man giveth up the 
ghost and where is he ?" , 



They sleep in death, who once were rob'd 

In vestments rich and rare ; 
They sleep in dealh, who once were lov'd, — 

The beautiful and fair. 

Mute in the narrow house at last, 

Though eloquent, yet still, 
They slumber, who, in days long past, 

Sway'd senates at their will. 

The rustic, from his ceaseless toil, 

Hath sunk to deep repose ; 
Another tills the verdant soil, 

And plucks the summer rose. 

And he, who weary years hath known, 

Clouded and dark with care, 
Lies stupid as the valley stone, 

That moulders senseless near, 



548 BREVITY OF LIFE. 

The youth's proud form, instinct with grace, 

Is motionless and cold, 
The infant's smiling cherub face, 

Lies hid beneath the mould. 

Alas, for earth! for man, alas ! 

Vain, vain, is human love ! 
Alone through death's dark vale we pass, 

No tears the tyrant move ! 



O! REST YE IN PEACE, &c. 



O ! rest ye in peace by the ocean wave, 
Where the orange-tree blooms above your grave, 
And the whisp'ring tamarind sighs so low 
That, dirge -like, it sounds a wail of deep wo. 

O ! rest ye in peace ! The beautiful earth 
To all beautiful forms gives constant birth, 
And o'er you rich flow'rets shall flourish in light, 
Though unwater'd above your dwelling of night. 

Soft skies on high, with clear amethyst hues, 
Stilly at even shall scatter pearl dews, 
And the star-beams, gilding ocean's billow, 
Shall robe with lustre your lowly pillow. 

O ! rest ye in peace ! where the Western Isles 
Rejoice in the light of the day-king's smiles, — 
Where the mellow moon shall watch over your rest 
And soft breezes blow in the Isles of the West. 



THE POET'S WRONG. 



The wrong they do, must I endure ? 
Poor me they hate*/ — themselves as poor; 
Conceal'd from public view, they work, 
As blind moles burrow in the dark ; 
And cut the roots where fair plants grow, 
Which flower above and die below. 
O ! tis a dark and horrid zeal, 
That animates the blows I feel ; 
That blends religion's peaceful name 
With envy's keen consuming flame ; 
And seeks to crush mind's great command, 
By sleights and whispers underhand: 
The bigot's torch they slily light, 
And, doing wrong, misname it right. 



THE BROKEN VOW. 

A BALLAD. 



" He offer'd wealth and all the joys of life, 
And the weak maid became another's wife." 

H. K. White. 



A youth and maiden, fair and young, 
Walk'd on the moonlit green, 

As words of love fell from his tongue, 
Amidst the sylvan scene: 

" O, lady, by yon orb so pale, 
And by yon trembling star ! 

Remember vows, breath'd in this vale, 
When Edwin sojourns far." 

" I will forget the vital air, 

That ministers to life, 
Ere I forsake my love, so dear, 

Or be proud Arthur's wife !" 



252 THE BROKEN VOW. 

Edwin is far, in fields of blood: 
War-banners flutter wide, 

And torrents roll, — a fearful flood,— 
With red gore darkly dy'd! 

False Ella weds proud Arthur soon,— 
Her lover distant far, — 

Despite her vow, made by the moon, 
And by the trembling star. 

His flashing sword wins valor's prize,— 

Glory exalts his name ! 
Will he be worthy in her eye?, 

Now grac'd with martial fame ? 

xllas ! that wealth had power to break 
A heart so brave and kind ! 

Alas ! that Ella's soul was weak, 
And grandeur sway'd her mind ! 

The soldier comes to claim his bride, — 
His long-lov'd maid to greet ; 

With his true heart and love so tried, 
To fall before her feet. 



THE BROKEN VOW. 253 

"O, tell me, mother, now, I pray, 

Of her whom I love best, — 
Whose image ever, while away, 

Liv'd in my constant breast J" 

"False Ella owns another love. 

My son, do not repine : 
A heart that could so faithless prove, 

Was never worthy thine." 

" O ! heavy tidings, mother dear, 

The words I hear this day!" 
He tore his richly-curling hair, 

And turn'd his face away. 

His eye look'd wo no words might speak. 
And glar'd with vengeful light : 

A death-like paleness blanch'd his cheek : 
He arm'd him for the fight. 

His brain was fir'd, — his heart beat high, — 

Madly he sought his foe : 
" Come, craven rival ! thou, or I, 

Death's pangs must quickly know." 



354 THE BROKEN VOW. 

Full soon that lady wept her son, 
In mortal combat slain, — 

For long ere sat the morrow's sun, 
He ceas'd from grief and pain. 



SONNET 



IN MEMORY OF MISS M. S. W. 



Yes ! thou wast lovely in thy youth, fair maid ! 
To memory sweet, though long in darkness laid : 
Though hush'd thy gentle voice, and lost thy smile, 
So beautiful and priz'd and lov'd erewhile ; — 
Yet friendship guards the spot where thou dost sleep, 
And o'er thy grave affection still doth weep 
With tears that mourn young genius early dead, 
And innocence and merit ever fled! 
On thee consumption laid its withering hand, 
And bade thee seek the spirit's better land, 
Where thy lov'd flow'rs in fadeless beauty bloom, 
And death hath lost its fear, — the grave its gloom! 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



w Childhood ! to thee I turn from life's alarms, 
Serenest season of perpetual calms." 

Kirke White, 



I. 

The sloe-free, with its clusters black and bright, 

The way-side spring, that, distant, met my sight, 

The road, that glitter'd white with sand, as slow 

The lonely trav'ler, plodding on, did go,- — 

I see them yet, — I see the hickory tree, 

And the low bush, whose soft fringe wav'd so free; 

I hear the partridge whistle in the wood, 

And the deep murmur of the sparkling flood, — 

Ev'n as I heard them when a thoughtless child, 

While blackberries and rosy plums around me smil'cL 

ii. 
And next remember'd is the cedar hill, 
The long wide poplar avenue, — the rill, 
That, glancing, spouted from its rocky bed, — 
And deep-green grass, that sank beneath the tread, 






EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 257 

Thick-springing daisies o'er the plain that grew, 

Mingling with violet pale of softest blue; 

Delicate sweet briar, fennel wild and broom, — ■ 

Broad-leav'd catalpa and its purple bloom, 

With silv'ry trunk the stately sycamore, 

And the far view that smil'd the various forest o'er, 

in. 

O! Autumn there was lovely; — oak-trees red, 

With pride-of-India's yellow hues, did spread, 

Mingling their colors gay on every side: 

With them stood changeless pine in solemn pride, 

And^strew'd in heaps along the russet ground, 

The many-colored leaves were dying found : 

'Tis true, Spring's early freshness was not seen, 

Nor the deep tint of Summer's richer green; 

Yet all was, past description, rich and fair, 

And evening skies would oft like molten gold appear, 

IV. 

And O! what sad thoughts brought that autumn scene! 
That sky, so burnish'd, was all soft, serene, — 
And gently touch'd the heart; — the leaves that fell, 
A warning lesson to the soul might tell; 
They were bright, gay and fresh while Summer staid, 
Now they were withering in the silent glade; — 
w2 



258 EARLY RECOLLECTION'S. 

O'er skies so glorious was gloom quickly thrown, 
When dark-brow'd night rose on her ebon throne, 
As sank the day-king in his Western bed, — 
" Like us, O ! giddy man, soon dost thou die !" they said, 



Wise seeua'd the beldame, who did then recite 

Her tale of marvels,— told of Indian fight ; — 

How the red warrior she had often seen, 

When ev'ning stole along the forest green, 

With dark defiance on his brow, glide on, — 

Coupled with warning not to stray alone ; 

Then, varying her discourse, would blame her fate, 

And tell how once she livM in pride and state, — 

And stun my ear with many a savage name 

Of those who dwelt in that far land from which she 



VI. 

The dame declar'd with most important look, 
That when loud storms the gloomy forest shook, 
She oft had seen a charioteer rush by, 
Red as the lightning's flash his fiery eye,- — 
Black was his look, — his car and steed were black, 
And the green earth was parch'd beneath his track j 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 259 

"Thrice round my hut the fearful demon pass'd, 
And still on me his furious eyes would cast, 
But when the rain fell fast and torrents flow'd," 
She said, "he turn'd abrupt and quitted my abode.'* 

VII. 

O'er the neat dairy was her sway entire, 
Near which, each morning, flam'd her constant fire; — 
Rang'd round, the snowy milk-bowls were her pride, 
While bustling with huge pocket at her side; 
Many the herbs that in the sun she spread, 
And told their virtues in diseases dread; 
She oft would weed the garden walk, and, then, 
At even-tide the wandering poultry pen; 
Much did she deal in eggs, and much in charms, 
Which boldly she averr'd would ward off threat'ning 
harms. 

VIII. 

The heart-shaped snowy curd, our breakfast cheer, 
Cover'd with tempting cream, evinced her care; 
Oft would the thirsty urchin joyful hail 
Her crooked gourd beside the water pail : 
She ne'er lik'd reference to her age, and wore 
A kerchief round her head, neat tied before ; 
Each ear displayed a puncture large, which she 
Oft pointed out with looks of pride and glee, 



260 EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

And told what glitt'ring gems she used to wear 
Beyond the sea, — for gold and shining gems were there. 

IX. 

And, — O strange fancy ! she would careful keep 
Her burial-clothes, and I have seen her weep, 
While, spreading them before my eyes, she said, 
"She doubted not she should, ere long, be dead, 
And Pompey, then, would choose another mate; " — 
This thought, at her sad heart, most heavy sat : 
Pompey, her spouse, seemed youthful as her child, 
To him her deeds were kind, her accents mild, 
She had no child, save an adopted one; — 
Alas ! poor dame, her sorrows and her tales are done. 

x. 

Old Gordon, too, the garden was his sphere, 
As flow'rs and fruits he daily tended there ; 
He gather'd nuts in Autumn from the wood, 
And much could I rely upon his word 
When clouds arose, — for he was weather-wise, 
And scann'd the changing sky with prophet eyes : 
He did not deal, as dealt the dame, in chat, 
But patiently to hear her tales he sat, — 
Though a long story he could deftly frame, 
Yet would not vouch its truth, — "from such an one it 
carne," 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 261 

XI. 

Old Gordon to the cook would oft present 
His slender bunch of thyme, — 'twas to prevent 
Her untaught hand from leaving bare the root, 
And tearing rudely off the tender shoot ; 
I sometimes heard their warm disputes run high, 
When marjoram she stole in privacy, — 
"Lest dinner," pleaded she, "too late should be, 
Follow'd, still later, by a lagging tea ; 
The old man tarried long, she could not wait," 
"He came," he answer'd, "in good time, she need not 
prate." 

XII. 

But Gordon could not equal her in talk, 
Soon from her furious presence would he walk, 
While she scream'd loudly after, " Go, you sloth, 
Would your year's labor were one dinner worth," 
As low he mutter'd, "Hear the woman's tongue!" 
And took his hoe and went his trees among. 
The gardener's motions were but slow, in truth, : 
His feet now lack'd the springing step of youth. 
Nor much he liked the taunts she did bestow, 
"None else," he said, "found fault, why did dame 
Betty so ?" 



SONNET, 



Grief's mournful touch was on my brow : for me 
The greenly smiling earth and rolling sea, 
And sunlit summer heav'n, intensely bright, 
And, with her starry crown, dark-visag'd night, 
Had lost their spells : a cloud was o'er my life, 
And stern within had been my bosom's strife. 
That cloud roll'd back ! The earth once more was fair, 
And joy came wafted on the fragrant air ; 
The sparkling night was glorious in my eyes, 
When stars look'd forth from blue, autumnal skies, 
And my cold heart awoke once more to love, 
As wakes the choir at sunrise in the grove. 






MEN AND FLOWERS 



The Spring, — the Spring, — the radiant Spring, 

How brightly does it bloom ! 
Glad Nature's heart doth sweetly sing 

As earth were not a tomb. 

The sky, — the azure sky is soft, 

Like childhood's lightsome sleep ; 

Its clouds dissolve in rain, as oft 
As little children weep. 

" Blush on, — blush on, ye Spring-time flow'rs ; 

Your doom is early death; — 
Amid earth's fragrant, blooming bow'rs, 

We, too, yield soon our breath. 

Ye die, — we die, — a little while, 

Sees man and flow'r depart: 
Ye smile, — we smile, — alas ! we smile 

Oft with a breaking heart." 



264 MEN AND FLOWERS. 

" Weep not, — weep not, poor child of clay,' 
Methinks the flowers reply, 

" Your better home is far away, 

In heaven, where none may die. 

"Bind up, — bind up the broken heart, 
Wipe off each falling tear ; 

The tomb bids earthly joy depart, 
But souls ne'er slumber there. 

"Ye die, — we die, — the body dies, 
The spirit's garment frail ; — ■ 

Far, far from death the spirit flies, 
Angels its coming hail. 

"And Spring and flowers and joy await 
The soul from bonds set free, 

And changeless is the happy state 
Of blest eternity." 






THE POET'S GRAVE. 



Rest, mournful one, 

Thy task is done, 

And hush'd the silver lyre, 

The vernal earth, the gleaming sun, 

Shall thee no more inspire. 

Sweet flow'rs may bloom 
Around thy tomb, 
Yet give thee no delight; 
For darkness covers thee with gloom, 
And ever wakeless night. 

Thy struggling soul, 

Beyond control 
Of clayey bonds, doth soar, — 
Where sorrow's waves forget to roll, 
And grief awakes no more. 

Lost child of song, 
Thou wast not long, 



266 THE poet's grave. 

With sparkling dreams, earth's guest, — 
Her heartless, sordid sons among; 
Thy spirit pined for rest,— 

Rest from the proud! 
In thy white shroud, 
O ! none will frown on thee ; 
And thou wilt wander no more bow'd 
In hopeless misery. 

With feelings keen, 

Though brow serene, 
None knew thy secret care, 
Nor how thy life was spent between 
Fond hope and dark despair. 

When hope inspir'd, 
Thy song was fir'd 
With thoughts as sun-rays bright, 
And all the bliss thy soul desir'd, 
Was told with wild delight 

And when despair, 

With horrent fear, 
Wail'd through thy solemn strain, 
The picture of thy wo was there, 
And spoke the minstrel's pain. 



267 



Rest, child of song! 

Thou wast not long 
Neglected and oppress'd, 
Earth's false and sordid sons among; 
Thy spirit now hath rest! 



TO A SLEEPING INFANT 



O, sweetly slumber, lovely child ! 
With snowy face and features mild, 
Good angels guard thy slumbers deep, 
And dreams of beauty haunt thy sleep. 

Man's malice cannot touch thee now, 
No furrow mars thy beauteous brow, 
And none shall tell thee, when awake, 
Thou'rt hated for thy parents' sake. 

Though tiger-hearted foes are round, 
Thy guileless bosom feels no wound, 
And God, who little children blest, 
Will shield my darling's tender breast. 

Ope now those eyes of tender light, — 
Those trusting eyes so meekly bright ; 
In their clear depths I read a tale, 
That almost makes my spirit quail. 



TO A SLEEPING INFANT. 269 

Thou shalt have povv'r, my child!— a pow'r 
That gives thee sorrow for thy dow'r: 
O ! ever mind's command must sway, 
Fools hate its might, but must obey. 

In thy life's garden thorns I see, 
They pierced thy parents and shall thee ; 
Thy beauty, innocence and grace 
Cannot relentless hate efface. 






x2 



SONNET. 



Thy glorious eye, whose glance was hope and life ? 
Thy beamy locks with hues of liquid gold, 
Thy count'nance fair, with winning charms so rife, 
Thy bearing ever graceful, kind and bold, — 
Where are they now? Alas! what hadst thou done, 
To leave the green and laughing earth so soon ? 
Dark clouds obscured thine early rising sun, 
They clos'd around, and midnight was thy noon ;— 
The midnight of the deeply silent tomb 
Hath wrapp'd thy youthful graces and thy bloom . 
Thou wast too bright and lov'd to linger here, 
Thou angel vision, — lost forever more ! 
Trsnslated to some happier, lovelier shore, 
Where comes no mournful sigh, no dimning tear. 



I REMEMBER A CLIME, &c. 



i. 

I remember a clime where mild evening's sky 
Commingles with gold its dark purple dye, 
The hues of the topaz and saphire are seen 
With pearl tints translucent and orange and green, 
When careering o'er ocean a wide trackless way, 
Cool winds murmur gently at close of the day. 

ii. 
How pure is their breath, reviving and sweet ! 
The withering branches, late drooping from heat, 
Look up with new vigour, and, through the tall grove, 
The gay birds are flying where lists them to rove ; 
Low billows are laving the silvery strand, 
And ocean's wild music resounds on the land. 

in. 
Short twilight is past: large and lustrous on high, 
The broad western moon looks forth from the sky ; 
Sole empress she reigns, and, glancing below, 
Sees her radiance reflected from dark water's glow ; 



272 I REMEMBER A CLIME, &C 

Her wide saffron mantle falls light on the hills, 
And robes in mild splendour the silver- voic'd rills. 

IV. 

How twinkle the stars from their blue vaulted height, 
In countless array round the queen of the night, 
As gossamer clouds float past like a veil, 
And render her visage a moment more pale! 
They flit slowly by. — intensely she gleams, — 
Distinct grows the scene by her magical beams. 

v. 

There stand lofty trees in luxuriant pride, 
And rich tropic fruits their dark branches hide ; 
There, wreath'd in thick masses, the flower-deck'd vine 
Round their rough trunks colossal its tendrils doth twine, 
There white rocks fantastic frow r n downward severe, 
And smooth plains and fountains are glittering there. 

VI. 

How gallantly stems yon vessel the wave ! 
Her bearing is noble, — she carries the brave; — 
Her bold prow is dashing the white foam away, 
Her deck is besprinkled with salt ocean spray. 
Be cautious, ye mariners! skilfully steer, — 
Death lurks on yon rocks and destruction is near! 



I REMEMBER A CLIME, teC. 273 

VII. 

All, shroudless beneath the shimmering sea, 

Lie many as brave, as fearless and free ! 

Cold waters enwrap them, — their funeral wail 

Is sung, in loud tones, by the hollow- voic'd gale ; — 

But they heed not its sound, — for deaf is the ear 

That the death-slumber steels on its cold pillow there. 

VII I. 

And under yon palm-trees wavering shade, 
Where verdure is richest, the stranger is laid; — 
Far, fir from the land of his love and his birth; 
What boots it? He lies on the bosom of earth: 
Till the last trump resounds, their rest will be deep, 
Who repose on the land, — in ocean who sleep ! 



WEST INDIAN AUTUMN. 



Bright Isles of the ocean! tall groves of the West! 
With fruits and gay flow'rets delightfully drest, 
How fresh is the sea breeze that fans your green bow'rs ! 
Here spreads the wide prospect, — the mountain here 
towers. 

When Autumn her yellow robe wears in this clime ; 
When ripe hang the orange, the lemon and lime, 
When sweet-scented melons exhale spicy breath, 
Then comes a wan fury, whose dread name is Death ! 

On his skeleton horse he flies like the wind, 
Youth sickens before him, and grief howls behind; 
The head of the stately he bows to the earth, 
And spreads his black banner o'er beauty and worth. 

The joyous young maiden, who sang to her lyre, 
The youth, whose proud accents breath'd eloquent fire, 
The silver-hair'd father, who wisdom did speak, 
And infancy, smiling with soft rounded cheek ; 



WEST INDIAN AUTUMN. 275 



He quick marks for his prey ! the funeral pall, 
Exulting, he flings on the great and the small, 
Who wither and droop,— fall prostrate and die, 
When this pale King of Terrors triumphant rides by 



SLANDER, 



Who is the dame with ghastly stare, 
With snaky locks and brow of fear, 
With haggard look, — with tatter'd garb, — 
In her right hand a thirsty barb? 
Fell Slander is the fury's name ; 
With mournful voice and eyes of flame, 
Her dreadful trumpet rings aloud, 
While silent gape the list'ning crowd: 
At each foul blast, some victim's name 
Is branded with disgrace and shame. 
Detested hag! fly, fly away, — 
Thy hated presence clouds the day; — 
Call all the fiends who on thee wait, 
And all the woes thou dost create ; 
Flee to some dark and secret cave, 
Where pent up whirlwinds storm and rave, 
Where thunder roars, and lightning keen 
Reveals the lone and horrid scene, — 
Where croaking frogs and serpents dread 
Cry, hiss and rear the crested head; — 



SLANDER, 277 

Where owls and ravens flap their wings,— 
Go ! dwell with these abhorred things ; — 
Bid white-rob *d peace return once more, 
And hatred, grief and ill be o'er : 
Then shall the smiling world rejoice, 
And concord tune her winning voice ! 



O! WEEP NOT FOR THE EARLY DEAD, &c. 



O ! weep not for the early dead, 

Who leave this world of strife ; 

From all its ills and woes they fled, 
Ere sorrow darkened life. 

Plant not above their lowly grave 

The fun'ral cypress tree, 
Nor let the yew nor willow wave 

Where only flow'rs should be. 

Mourn not for freedom gain'd so soon,— 

For earthly fetters riv'n, 
Life is, at best, a transient boon, 

Man's only rest in heaven. 

Rejoice for them ! Death's murky flood, 
With waters cold and drear, 

That like a gloomy spectre stood, 
To vex their souls with fear, 



o! WEEP NOT FOR THE EARLY DEAD. 279 

Is past. Heav'irs lambent light doth beam 

On their translated souls, 
And angel harpings mellow stream 

Round them in cadence rolls. 

Weep not for them, — O ! weep no more. 

But for yourselves be sad; 
Their home is on a blissful shore, 

Dry up your tears, — be glad ! 






THE SUN HAD SET AND EVENING'S QUEEN, &c. 



" Sweet spirit, visit our repose, 

And bear from thine own world of rest 

Some balm for human woes ; 
What form more lovely could be giv'n 
Than thine to messenger of heav'n ?"— 



The sun had set and evening's queen 
Rose blood-red o'er the hill; 

The shades were gathering dark between 
The cedars lone and still. 

I wander'd forth. The balmy gale 
Blew fragrant o'er the broom,* 

As darkling, in the moonbeam pale, 
I saw an infant's tomb. 

I thought upon the angel boy, 

Slumb'ring in death below ; — 

I saw, again, his smile of joy, 
His downy cheek's soft glow, 

* A Southern grass. 



THE SUN HAD SET, &C. 281 

I saw his brow, so high and fair, 

His eye so brightly mild, 
O ! lovely was the Saxon hair 

Of that beloved child. 

The purple clouded skies, all bright, 

A flood of radiance shed; 
The stars were up, — their mellow light 

Fell on his greensward bed. 

And then I ask'd, could he be there,-— 

The little wand'rer flown,— 
A lovely dweller of some sphere, 

Whose light then on me shone ? 

Could he, with sapient eye, behold 

Me pensive far below, 
His features, cast in seraph mould, 

And pity then my wo? 

Perchance let fall a tear? O, no! 

Or can an angel weep? 
No sorrow they, on high, may know, 

Where heav'nly harps they sweep. 

y2 



282 THE SUN HAD SET, &C. 

But might he not unto the Lord 
Prefer a prayer for me ? 

And then, meth ought, his voice I heard 
Dulcet with melody* 



THE GRAVE, 



O, Grave ! thou place where kings have little pow'r, 
Where evil comes not, nor the mournful hour; 
Joy and delight are strangers unto thee, 
Despair and vain regrets far from thee flee, 
Sad envy bites not, passion does not rave 
In thy cold regions, dark and lonely grave ! 

On earth, ambition bounds tow'rd mountain height, 
From smoking plains and fields of bloody fight, 
While ghastly murder stalks with gory hand, 
And famine follows through the groaning land ; 
From thee ambition, wealth nor might can save : 
The strong, the weak are thine alike, O grave! 

Storms loudly how], at times, in wrath severe, 
And thunders roll and lightnings cleave the air ; 
Volcanoes burn, and earthquakes, yawning wide, 
Alarm, convulse and kill on every side ; — 
These, in their march, thy dreary dwellings pave, 
Last home of man, thou deeply silent grave ! 



284 THE GRAVE. 

Music, at sunset hour, comes on the ear, 

From distance borne, thrilling and soft and clear; 

While, lo ! the wild wave murmurs from afar, 

As the moon glitters and forth peeps the star: 

But they are not for thee! — the sounding wave, 

Moon, music, stars, are none of thine, — dread grave ! 

And gladness gleams around the cheerful hearth, 
When fond ones meet in harmless, heartfelt mirth, 
As kindred souls together mingle there, 
Perchance they dream, awhile, that life is fair ; 
Thou call'st them thence : friendship nor love can save 
Thy summons all obey, victorious grave ! 

Fresh verdure, spreading, decks earth's smiling hills ; 

Sunshine and shade and softly rolling rills, 

Appear, on every side, to bless our way ; 

Gay winged insects float in glad array ; 

These wake no bliss in thee ; joy's rippling wave, 

Is never in thy caverns heard, stern grave ! 

Mightiest of earth! who shall thy realms invade? 
Gabriel's loud trump shall instant be obey'd 
By thee, grim tyrant ! as, asunder rent, 
Thou yield'st thy myriads up, for ages pent. 
We fear thee not, for there is One can save 
From thy long, dark embrace, relentless grave ! 



FRIENDSHIP, 

INSCRIBED TO MRS. E. BROWN. 

My heart had its season of bitterest pain, 

When life's brightest pleasures grew worthless and 

vain, 
When sickness and sorrow oppressed me with gloom, 
And, living, I walked in the shade of the tomb ! 

My heart had its season of chilling dismay, 
When those who should love me were cold or away; 
When prejudice triumphed, oppression was strong, 
And pale envy sneered, rejoicing in wrong. 

Then came a mild angel, white-vested, serene, 
With beautiful charity's glorified mien, 
Truth, justice and mercy were seen in her train, 
Blest Friendship approached me, and malice was vain. 

Hail, spirit beloved ! come dwell at my side ; 
My strength and my solace, there ever abide : 
Then slander's fell arrows shall harmlessly fly, 
Oppression and prejudice vanish and die ! 



GENTLEST ONE I LOVE THEE STILL. 



For the true and tender heart, — 
For the kind and loving eye, — 
For the more than equal part 
Borne in ev'iy grief gone by, — 
Joy in sorrow, friend in ill, — 
Gentlest one, I love thee still! 

When the voice of friendship died, 
Other love than thine grew cold ; 
I, deserted, — sorely tried, 
Long'd to sleep beneath the mould ; 
When the dreary world was chill, 
Gentlest one, I lov'd thee still ! 

In an hour of joy and pride, 
When my heart was blithe and gay, 
High ambition gratified, 
Double joy was thine that day ; 
For me did bliss thy bosom fill, 
I lov'd thee then, I love thee still! 



GENTLEST ONE I LOVE THEE STILL. 287 

Through life's journey, well I know, 
All abounding, ever new, 
With its sparkling fountain flow, 
Still shall gush thy love so true, 
And till life's last pulses thrill, 
Gentlest one, I'll love thee still. 

In a world of light above, 
Pure will live that deathless love, 
Where the breezy music's spell 
Floats o'er fields of asphodel, 
And raptures high the spirit fill, 
Gentlest one, I'll love thee still ! 



JOY AND ENVY 



Pleasant a fountain swept along 
Its fragrant bank of flowers, 

And summer birds birds beguil'd with song 
The sun-lit, spring-like hours. 

O ! sweeter far than earthly strain, 

Those heavenly notes flow'd forth ; 

Tall trees bedeck'd the velvet plain, — 
Winds murmur'd from the South. 

And Joy was there, with seraph smile, 

And form and features fair, 
With dimpling cheek and winning wile, 

And curling, golden hair. 

She smooth'd the brow of wrinkled Grief, 
And bade her weep no more ; 

She gave the anxious blest relief, 
And comforted the poor. 






JOY AND ENVY. 289 

She sooth'd desponding Genius still, — - 

The weary lull'd to rest; 
And Innocence, o'erborne with ill, 

Slept gently on her breast. 

But one alone her pow'r defied, — - 

Scowling with ghastly sneer; 
While Discord, Hate and Malice vied 

To stamp her visage drear. 

That pining Fury, fill'd with hate, 

And cruelty and strife, 
Is Envy hight, foe of the great, 

And direst plague of life. 

She sought to blight the laurel crown 

Exulting Genius wore; 
Beneath her dark, malignant frown, 

Merit was priz'd no more. 

Under the thraldom of her gaze, 

Beauty was seen to die ; 
She utter'd never word of praise,— 

Her ev'ry breath a sigh. 



290 JOY AND ENVY. 

On Goodness fell her fiercest wrath, 
She joy'd in Friendship's tear; 

Hope faded round her gloomy path, 
And Love was fill'd with fear. 






I WILL GO TO THE GRAVE. 



I will go to the grave, since there thou hast gone, 

It is better to die, than all mournful live on ; 

Dark storms, in mid ocean, have shadow'd my way, 

My sun is o'erclouded and murky my day ; 

Hoarse whirlwinds are spending their might on my 

head, 
I call thee, but thou canst not answer, my dead ! 

Chaf'd ocean is heaving great waves to the sky, 
As darts of keen lightning flash vividly by ; 
Low growling and distant, deep thunder doth sound, 
Like the wail of a demon far under the ground ; 
My heart is fear-frozen and reeling my head, 
I call thee, but thou canst not answer, my dead ! 

Roll on, mighty tempest! sweep onward in wrath! 
Destruction and terror attend thy wide path ! 
Pale-featur'd dismay and cold tremulous fear 
Appear at thy bidding and mark thy career; 
Thou earth-rending fury ! thou reckless and dread ! 
Thy voice cannot waken my slumbering dead ! 



292 I WILL GO TO THE GRAVE. 

Hark! silver-ton'd music's sweet magical strain, 
Wow wav'ring and dying and swelling again, 
Where revel a gay and young beautiful throng, 
Whom pleasure hath gather'd for feast and for song; 
Glad faces and jewels their light round me shed, 
But thou brightest of all ! — where art thou, my dead ! 

In the thick forest shade, when evening comes on, 
When feeble the rays fall from yon sinking sun, 
How mild blows the fresh breeze! how balmy and 

sweet, 
As the rivulet purls all clear at my feet ; 
The bird on her green bough, — the stream in its bed,— 
What are they without thee,— what are they, my dead! 



THE VILLAGE PASTOR. 

INSCRIBED TO REV. D. T. KIMBALL, IPSWICH, MASS. 



With modest mien, the man of God 
His path to heav'n in silence trod! 
While on his brow and in his eye 
Beam'd forth a blessed charity ; 
The Word of life his daily food, 
Rejoicing still in doing good ; 
Precept, example won the crowd, 
Whose praise was felt, though never loud; 
He car'd not for the world's applause, 
But lov'd the Lord and kept his laws. 
I saw him then, I see him now, 
The hand of time upon his brow, — 
Yet lovely in declining age, 
In action kind, in counsel sage, 
A stranger from a distant land, 
I feel the pressure of his hand, 
And bless the mild voice sent to sway 
His fellow men and guide their way: 
No bigot's creed did he uphold, 
And valued merit without gold. 
z2 



294 THE VILLAGE PASTOR» 

O ! rare and sweet it is to find 
Virtues like his in one combined, — 
Where men but labor for renown, 
Unmindful of the heavenly crown, 
Which such as he shall wear above, 
In realms of glory, bliss and love! 



FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. 



Dark ocean before us ; — behind us thy shore, 
O, Albion! thy green hills shall greet us no more: 
Thy palaces, castles and tower-crown'd rocks, 
Thy cottages lowly, surrounded by flocks, 
Recede in the distance, — then fade from the eye, 
And nought we behold save the wide sea and sky. 

But slowly and sadly my heart bids adieu 
To thee, O thou home of the brave and the true ! 
Thou wast the wild dream of my earliest life ; 
Thy wisdom in peace, thy courage in strife, 
Spread glory around thee that gleam'd from afar ; — 
In the West I beheld thee a glittering star. 

My heart bounded gladly, when first 'gainst the sky 
Thy rocks rose, — a bulwark, — majestic and high; 
Our gallant bark floated along the smooth sea, 
And anchor'd in Scotland, the peerless, the free : 
The heather and blue-bell were blooming and green, 
As Clyde's silver waters gave life to the scene. 



296 FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. 

Here chieftains and warriors, unconquer'd of old, 
With all their renown, green earth doth enfold ; 
O'er this spreading landscape the mighty have trod, 
Who bled for the land of the mountain and flood ; 
Caledonia, beautiful, birth-place of fame ! 
The deeds of thy heroes have hallow'd thy name ! 

Edina, Linlithgow and Stirling, — all tell 

Thy proud splendours of yore : how strong is their spell! 

Here, Memory, bright, on thy clear-pictur'd pages, 

The records appear of long vanished ages ! 

O ! cold is the heart that can view thee unmoved, 

Whose valour and truth so dearly are proved. 

Adieu to thee, Scotia! land of my sires! 
Dear art thou to me till my frail life expires : 
I will not forget thee, — I cannot forget 
The kindred and friends in Edina I met, 
So cherish'd alas ! deep, deep cause have I 
To love and remember thy shores till I die. 

O Thou! whose will is the fate of each nation, 

Preserve this lov'd Isle, thy lovely creation ! 

May freedom's blest banner forever more wave, 

From her steeps that the cold waters ceaselessly lave, 

And religion, best gift, continue to smile 

On the Isle of my love, — Britannia's green Isle f 



SUMMER.— A SONNET. 



A tall fair form, with ardent eyes, behold! 
In her bright hands, rich fiow'rs and fruits of gold ; 
High floats the azure cloud about her brow, 
And thunder-storms and rainbows greet her now: — 
Now pleasant gales and sunshine on her wait, 
And forests robe them in their garb of state. 
Nature rejoices 'neath her magic sway, 
Song-birds and insects hover round her way ; 
Deep verdure freshens round, — forth leaps the rill, 
All teeming earth yields homage to her will. 
Luxurious, grand, the season's radiant queen, — 
Pride, glory, beauty, grace at once her mien ; 
At once her gorgeous splendor strikes the eye, 
Green fields rejoice and joy invests the sky. 



WINTER.— A SONNET. 



High on an icy throne, the frost-king stands, 
And, marshall'd round, behold his grizzly bands ! 
Keen-sworded champion, hear the North wind roar, 
Whistling and howling o'er the frozen moor ; 
Dark, dim and drear, the wintry cloud on high 
Bids bright Apollo's beams grow faint and fly ; 
A dread artillery, rapid sleet descends, 
And with loud Boreas ! all conquering blends : 
In his strong chains, still grows the mighty flood, 
And verdureless the summer-blooming wood : 
See yonder lake, like polished mirror, glow ! 
Earth hides her in a bridal veil of snow, 
And folds her arms to shelter flow'rets sweet, 
Which Spring shall summon from their safe retreat. 






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